VALUABLE    WORKS 

PUBLISHED    BY 

GOULD     AND     LINCOLN, 

69   WASHINGTON    STREET,    BOSTON. 


THE  CHRISTIAN'S  DAILY  TREASURY. 

A  Reiigious  Exercise  for  Every  Day  in  the  Year.    By  E.  Temple.    A  new  and  im- 
proved edition.    12mo,  CiOth,  $1.00. 
A  work  for  every  Christian.    It  is  indeed  a  "  Treasury  "  of  good  r  ings. 

THE  SCHOOL  OF  CHRIST; 

Or,  Christianity  Viewed  in  its  Leading  Aspects.  By  the  Rev.  A.  L.  R  Foote, 
author  of  "  Incidents  in  the  Life  of  our  Saviour,"  etc.    ldmo,  cloth,  50  cents. 

THE  CHRISTIAN  LIFE, 
Social  and  Individual.    By  Peter  Bayne,  M.  A.    12mo,  clott.,  $1.25. 

The  demand  for  this  extraordinary  work,  commencing  before  its  publication,  is  still  eager  and  con- 
stant. There  is  but  one  voice  respecting  it ;  men  of  all  denominations  agree  in  pronouncing  it  one  of 
the  most  admirable  works  of  the  age. 

GOD  REVEALED  IN  THE  PROCESS  OF  CREATION, 

And  by  tTie  Manifestation  of  Jesus  Christ.  Including  an  Examination  of  the  Develop- 
ment Theorv  contained  in  the  "  Vestiges  of  the  Natural  History  of  Creation."  By 
James  B.  Walker,  author  of  "Philosophy  of  the  Plan  of  Salvation."  12mo, 
cloth,  $1.00. 

PHILOSOPHY  OF  THE  PLAN  OF  SALVATION. 

By  an  American  Citizen.    An  Introductorv  Essav,  by  Calvin  E.  Stowe,  D.  D. 

New  improved  edition,  with  a  Supplementary  Chapter.    12mo,  cloth,  75  cts. 

This  book  is  generally  admitted  to  be  one  of  the  best  in  the  English  language.  The  work  has  been 
translated  into  several  different  languages  in  Europe.    A  capital  book  to  circulate  among  young  men. 

A  WREATH  AROUND  THE  CROSS ; 

Or.  Scripture  Truths  Illustrated.  By  A.  Morton  Brown,  D.  D.  Recommen. 
datory  Preface,  by  Johh  Angell  James.  Beautiful  Frontispiece.  16mo,  cloth,  60 
cents. 

THE  BETTER  LAND ; 

Or,  The  Believer's  Journey  and  Future  Home.    By  Rev.  A.  C.  Thompson.    12mo, 

cloth,  85  cents. 

A  most  charming  and  instructive  book  for  alt  now  journeying  to  the  "Better  Land,"  and 
especially  for  those  who  have  friends  already  entered  upon  its  never-ending  joys. 

THE  MISSION  OF  THE  COMFORTER. 

With  copious  Notes.  By  Julius  Charles  Hare.  With  the  Notes  translated 
for  the  American  edition.    12mo,  cloth,  $1.25. 

DR.  WAYLAND'S  UNIVERSITY  SERMON 
Delivered  in  the  Chapel  of  Brown  University.    12mo,  cloth,  $1.00. 

THE  RELIGIONS  OF  THE  WORLD. 

And  their  Relations  to  Christianity.  By  Frederick  Denison  Maurice,  A.  M, 
Frofessor  of  Divinity,  King's  College,  London.    16mo,  cloth,  60  cts. 

(5) 


ESSAYS 


IN 


BIOGRAPHY  JJtft  jlRIJICISM. 
Library* 

Of  cwjfflW^ 


PETERjBAYNE,   M.  A. 

AUTHOR    OV    "THE    CHRISTIAN    LIFE,    SOCIAL    AND 
INDIVIDUAL,"     ETC. 


FIRST      SERIES, 


•BOSTON: 
GOULD     AND     LINCOLN, 

59    WASHINGTON     STREET. 

NEW    YORK:     SHELDON     AND    COMPANY. 

CINCINNATI:    GEO.   S.   BLANCHARD. 

1860. 


Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1857,  by 

GOULD    AND    LINCOLN, 

In  the  Clerk's  Office  of  the  District  Court  of  the  District  of  Massachusetts. 


/ 


W^J 


PEINTED  BT 

GEORGE   C.  RAND  &  AVERY. 


G.   J.    STILKS, 

ELECTRO-STEREOTYPER, 

BOSTO N . 


\       »    'V     >     \ 


^      ff 


2. 


PEEPACE* 


The  papers  here  published  consist  in  part  of  con- 
tributions to  an  Edinburgh  Magazine,  and  in  part  of 
compositions  which  have  not  previously  appeared. 
Of  the  former,  some  have  undergone  only  a  slight 
revision ;  others  have  been  so  modified  as  to  be  mate- 
rially changed  in  character ;  while  several,  though, 
save  in  a  single  instance,  retaining  their  original  titles, 
may  be  considered  altogether  new.  The  series  from 
which  the  republished  articles  are  selected  was  entered 
upon  about  the  commencement  of  the  author's  twenty- 
second  year,  during  the  prosecution  of  theological 
studies  in  Edinburgh ;  the  occasion  of  the  step  being 
an  inaptitude  and  distaste  for  private  tuition,  and  a 
facility  and  pleasure,  experienced  from  an  early  age, 
in  literary  composition.  The  selected  essays  were 
published,  with  one  or  two  exceptions,  in  the  two  suc- 
ceeding years. 

*  The  remarks  in  this  preface  are  intended  to  apply  both  to  the 
contents  of  the  present  volume,  and  also  to  those  of  a  Second 
Series,  the  publication  of  which  will  immediately  follow. 


X  PREFACE. 

An  apology  may  be  deemed  requisite  for  offering 
to  the  public  a  work,  of  which  even  the  germ  is  found 
in  pieces  composed  at  so  early  an  age.  Two  consid- 
rations  chiefly  weighed  with  the  writer  in  permitting 
the  publication.  He  could  not  let  slip  the  opportunity 
offered  of  bringing  together  that  portion  of  his  early 
performances,  to  which,  however  sensible  of  their 
defects,  he  could  yet  deliberately  append  his  signa- 
ture, setting  them  apart  from  that  far  larger  portion 
which  he  would  now  altogether  cast  behind  him,  as 
mere  confusions  of  a  too  much  wasted  youth.  And 
still  more  powerfully  was  he  influenced  by  the  reflec- 
tion, which  has  for  a  long  time  had  a  firm  hold  on  his 
mind,  that,  where  a  reading  public  is  so  extended  as 
that  of  America,  capacities  of  literary  enjoyment,  and 
susceptibilities  to  instruction,  will  vary  so  much,  both 
in  kind  and  degree,  that  it  is  by  no  means  easy,  if 
possible,  to  judge,  within  certain  limits,  from  the  ab- 
stract character  of  a  book,  whether  it  will  or  will  not 
prove  useless :  and  that,  therefore,  an  author,  abdi- 
cating, in  great  measure,  the  right  to  decide  as  to  the 
worthiness  or  unworthiness  of  his  compositions,  ought 
to  bow  to  the  unsought  expression  of  public  will. 
Such  an  expression  seemed  to  be  found  in  the  offer 
of  American  publishers  to  issue  these  volumes  :  and 
the  author  screens  himself  against  all  attack,  by  the 
plain  declaration,  that  they  would  not  now,  perhaps 
would  never,  have  appeared,  but  for  ihe  enterprise  and 
generosity  of  Messrs.  Gould  and  Lincoln. 

The  general  contents  of  these  Essays,  apart  from 


PREFACE.  XI 

their  inherent  qualities,  is  such  as  affords  some  coun- 
tenance to  the  belief  that  they  may  not  altogether  fail 
in  usefulness.  They  partake  largely  of  the  character 
of  an  introduction,  in  successive  chapters,  to  the  works 
of  great  authors  living  or  deceased.  Sir  Archibald 
Alison  has  testified  to  the  correctness  of  the  view 
given  of  his  political  theories;  and  it  may  be  added 
that  Mr.  De  Quincey  expressed  a  very  favorable 
opinion  of  the  essay  to  which  his  name  is  appended. 
It  must  not  be  thought  that  the  writer  affirms  on 
every  occasion  the  views  he  endeavors  to  define :  but 
to  open  the  way,  though  defectively,  to  an  intelligence 
of  any  mind  exercising  a  powerful  influence  upon  the 
age,  must  always  be  a  task  of  importance. 

The  papers  on  Mrs.  Barrett  Browning,  on  Mr.  Ten- 
nyson, and  on  Mr.  Ruskin  are,  with  several  others, 
now  first  published.  To  these  more  weight  is  attached 
than  to  the  earliest  essays.  It  struck  the  author,  in 
glancing  over  his  paper  on  Mr.  Ruskin,  that  the  very 
strength  of  his  convictions  had  impeded  him  in  ex- 
hibiting their  grounds,  that  his  feeling  of  the  total 
powerlessness  of  his  opponents  had  made  him  careless 
in  the  use  of  his  weapons.  There  are  things  too  ghostly 
to  stand  the  blow  of  an  argumentative  club ;  it  passes 
through  them  as  through  air ;  and  so  profound  is  his 
belief  that  a  large  proportion  of  the  critical  accusations 
brought  against  Ruskin  are  of  this  sort,  that  he  was 
unconsciously  heedless  in  his  assault  upon  them.  It 
may  be  added  that  he  fell  into  a  mistake  as  to  the 
•identity  of  one  of  the  reviewers  whom  he  attacks ;  a 


Xn  PREFACE. 

mistake,  however,  which  he  hardly  regrets  and  does 
not  alter,  since  no  man  is  better  entitled  to  bear  blows 
intended  for  the  real,  than  the  supposed,  reviewer. 

The  writer  cannot  refrain,  before  letting  fall  his 
pen,  from  expressing  in  one  word  his  sense  of  the 
manner  in  which  the  American  press  treated  his  former 
appearance  before  the  American  public.  Frankness, 
cordiality,  unmerited  and  exaggerated  generosity  char- 
acterized the  welcome  received  by  one  totally  un- 
known, the  native  of  another  land.  The  thought  of 
this  will  be  ever  among  his  most  proud  and  sacred 
recollections :  and  has  added  one  other  to  those  man- 
ifold and  profound  considerations,  which  had  formerly 
drawn  him,  in  admiration  and  affection,  accompanied, 
he  ventures  to  think,  by  a  more  deep  and  manly 
intelligence  than  is  common  in  Great  Britain,  towards 
the  American  people.  If  the  present  publication  is 
received  less  favorably  than  the  last,  if  even  it  draws  on 
itself  decided  disapproval  and  rebuke,  he  will  be  liable 
to  no  mistake  as  to  the  reason  of  the  change. 

Berlin,  April  18th,  1857. 


CONTENTS 


i. 

PAGE 

THOMAS  DE  QUINCEY  AND  HIS  WORKS,  .      15 


II. 

TENNYSON  AND  HIS  TEACHERS,  «  ,  ft         %  ,  50 

III. 
MRS.  BARRETT  BROWNING,  .  «  tj  .    146 

IV. 

GLIMPSES  OF  RECENT  BRITISH  ART,       .  »  t  .211 


Y. 

RUSKIN  AND  HIS  CRITICS,    .  .  .  .  .281 

FIRST  8EBIBS.  """fl  — 


XIV  CONTENTS. 

PAGE 

HUGH  MILLER,  .  •  •  -  *  .  .     334 

VII. 

( 
THE  MODERN  NOVEL,— Dickens— Bulweb— Thackeray,       363 

VIII. 

CURRER  BELL,— Ellis  — Acton— Curreb,         .  .  .393 


ESSAYS 


IN 


BIOGRAPHY  AND  CRITICISM. 


I. 

THOMAS  DE  QUINCEY  AND  HIS  WORKS. 

On  entering  upon  the  study  of  De  Quincey's  writings, 
the  first  thing  with  which  we  are  impressed  is  a  certain 
air  of  perfect  ease,  and  as  it  were  relaxation,  which  breathes 
around.  "The  river  glideth  at  his  own  sweet  will;"  now 
lingering  to  dally  with  the  water  lilies,  now  wandering  into 
green  nooks  to  reflect  the  gray  rock  and  silvery  birch,  now 
rolling  in  stately  silence  through  the  rich,  smooth  meadow, 
now  leaping  amid  a  thousand  rainbows  into  the  echoing 
chasm,  while  the  spray  rises  upwards  in  a  wavering  and 
painted  column.  Mildness,  or  majesty,  or  wild  Titanic 
strength  may  be  displayed,  but  the  river  is  ever  at  the 
same  perfect  ease,  all  unconscious  of  the  spectator.  "  My 
way  of  writing  is  rather  to  think  aloud,  and  follow  my  own 
humors,  than  much  to  consider  who  is  listening  to  me  ; "  — 
these  words,  used  with  express  reference  to  the  mode  in 
which  he  composed  the  "  Confessions,"  may  be  taken  as 
characterizing,   in    a   degree   more    or   less    eminent,  De 


16  THOMAS   DE   QUINCEY 

Qumcey's  universal  manner.  The  goal,  indeed,  is  always 
kept  in  view ;  however  circuitous  the  wandering  may  be, 
there  is  always  a  return  to  the  subject ;  the  river's  course 
is  always  seawards :  but  there  are  no  fixed  embankments, 
between  which,  in  straight,  purposeJike  course,  the  stream 
is  compelled  to  flow :  you  are  led  aside  in  the  most  way- 
ward, unaccountable  manner,  and  though  you  must  allow 
that  every  individual  bay  and  wooded  creek  is  in  itself 
beautiful,  yet,  being  a  Briton,  accustomed  to  feed  on  facts, 
/ike  the  alligators  whom  the.  old  naturalists  asserted  to  live 
upon  stones,  and  thinking  it  right  to  walk  to  the  purpose 
of  a  book  with  that  firm  step  and  by  that  nearest  road 
which  conduct  you  to  your  office,  you  are  soon  ready  to 
exclaim  that  this  is  trifling,  and  that  you  wish  the  author 
could  speak  to  the  point.  But  there  is  some  witchery 
which  still  detains  you ;  the  trifling  seems  to  be  flavored 
by  some  indefinable  essence,  which  spreads  an  irresistible 
charm  around ;  you  recollect  that  nature  has  innumerable 
freaks,  and  may  present,  in  one  quarter  of  a  mile,  the  giant 
rock  and  the  quivering  blue-bell,  the  defiant  oak  and  the 
trodden  lichen,  the  almost  stagnant  pool  and  the  surging 
cataract :  at  length  the  thought  dawns  upon  you,  that  this 
author  is  great  because  he  cannot  help  it;  that  he  is  a 
force  in  the  hand  of  nature ;  that,  whether  you  smile,  or 
frown,  or  weep,  or  wonder,  he  goes  on  with  the  same 
absolute  ease,  speaking  with  pure  spontaneity  the  thoughts 
that  arise  within  him.  Then  your  trust  becomes  deeper, 
your  earnestness  of  study  redoubles ;  you  are  profoundly 
convinced  that  here  is  no  pretence,  no  unnatural  effort; 
your  murmuring  turns  to  astonishment  at  the  complexity, 
richness,  and  strangely  blended  variety  of  nature's  effects. 
If  your  experience  is  the  same  as  ours  most  honestly  was, 
you  will  proceed  from  a  certain   pleasurable  titillation, 


AND    HIS    WORKS.  17 

produced  by  what  you  deem  twaddle,  though  twaddle 
deliciously  spiced  by  genius,  to  the  conviction  that,  how- 
ever hampered,  however  open  to  objection,  here  is  an 
intellect,  in  all  the  great  faculties  of  analysis,  combination, 
and  reception,  of  a  power  and  range  which  you  are  at  a 
loss  to  measure  or  define.  "We  must  take  into  account,  in 
judging  of  the  powers  of  De  Quincey,  the  fact  that  his  life 
has  been  shadowed  by  one  great  cloud,  which  would  have 
fatally  obscured  any  ordinary  intellect ;  that  he  has  seen  the 
stars  through  a  vail,  and  that  we  have  to  mete  the  power 
of  that  vision  which  could  pierce  such  an  obstruction.  It 
must  be  remembered,  too,  that  the  mind  of  De  Quincey  is, 
on  all  hands,  allowed  to  be  one  of  a  very  singular  and 
original  kind,  fit  is  pre-eminently  characterized  by  two 
qualities,  which  are  partially  regarded  with  suspicion  by 
hard  thinkers,  and  tend  to  lower  the  expectation  of  the 
reader  who  is  in  search  of  substantial  intellectual  suste- 
nance :  we  mean  humor,  and  what  we  can  only  call  mysti- 
cism. De  Quincey  is  essentially  and  always  a  humorist ;  a 
humorist  of  a  very  rare  and  delicate  order,  but  whose  very 
delicacy  is  mistaken  by  hard  minds  for  feebleness  or  silly 
trifling.  He  is  also,  to  some  extent,  an  intellectual  mystic. 
We  use  this  word  in  no  disparaging  sense  ;  nor  do  we  lay 
emphasis  upon  the  fact,  that  he  has  devoted  years  of  study 
to  the  works  of  express  mystics.  We  indeed  think  that 
this  last  is  not  of  material  importance  in  estimating  his 
writings  ;  the  influence  of  these  writers  was  not,  it  appears 
to  us,  of  sufficient  power  materially  to  color  his  originality. 
By  the  quality  of  mysticism,  as  attaching  to  the  mind  of 
De  Quincey,  we  mean  rather  a  certain  affinity,  so  to  speak, 
for  the  mysterious,  —  a  strange  idiosyncrasy,  in  which  asso- 
ciations of  terror,  of  gladness,  or  of  gloom,  link  themselves 
with  certain  seasons  and  places.  Voices  of  sympathy 
2* 


18  THOMAS   DE   QUINCEY 

awaken  for  him,  where  no  sound  falls  on  the  general  ear ; 
sorrows,  from  which  the  common  mail  of  custom  and 
coarseness,  or  even  active  practical  occupation,  defends 
other  men,  affect  him  with  poignant  anguish;  and  joys 
which  are  far  too  delicate  and  aerial  to  approach  the  hard 
man  of  the  world,  float  over  his  soul  like  spiritual  music. 
He  has  a  sure  footing  in  dim  and  distant  regions,  where 
phantasy  piles  her  towers,  and  raises  her  colonnades,  and 
wraps  all  in  her  weird  and  wondrous  drapery.  He  tells  us 
that,  "  like  Sir  Thomas  Brown,  his  mind  almost  demanded 
mysteries  in  so  mysterious  a  system  of  relations  as  those 
which  connect  us  with  another  world;"  and  we  cannot 
hesitate  to  use  the  hint  for  the  explication  of  much  to  which 
he  does  not,  in  that  connection,  intend  it  to  apply.  We 
are  met  by  expressions  of  sentiment,  regarding  summer, 
and  death,  and  solitude,  which  may  appear  strange  or  far 
fetched,  and  told  of  woes  which  our  duller  imaginations 
and  less  tremulous  sympathies  almost  compel  us  to  deem 
fantastic.  Altogether,  to  the  matter  of  fact  English  reader, 
the  phenomena  presented  by  these  works  are  astonishing 
and  alarming ;  and  it  is  well  for  him,  if  his  hasty  practicality 
does  not  prompt  him  to  close  them  at  once,  deciding  that 
here  is  no  real  metal  for  life's  highway,  but  only  such  airy 
materials  as  might  be  used  by  some  Macadam  of  the  clouds. 
Yet  we  are  confident  that  De  Quincey  has  performed  intel- 
lectual service  for  the  age,  which  could  be  shown  to  be 
practically  substantial  to  the  most  rigorously  practical  mind. 
We  would  specially  urge,  moreover,  that  it  is  quite  possible 
that  writings  may  be  of  the  highest  value,  although  one 
cannot  trace  their  association  with  any  department  of 
economic  affairs.  We  are  practical  enough,  and  make  no 
pretension  to  having  u  wjngs  for  the  ether."  But  let  it  at 
once  be  said,  that  the  world  is  not  a  manufactory.     There 


AND   HIS    WORKS.  19 

are  regions  where  the  spirit  of  man  can  expatiate  above  the 
corn  field  or  the  counter;  it  is  lawful  for  the  immortal 
principle  to  rise  for  a  time  out  of  the  atmosphere  of  the 
labor  curse  ;  the  universe  is  really  wonderful,  and  it  is  not 
well  to  forget  the  fact ;  nay,  finally,  it  is  well  for  a  man, 
perhaps  at  times  it  is  best  for  him,  to  spread  the  wings  of 
his  mind  for  regions  positively  removed  from,  antipodal  to, 
practice,  if  haply  he  may  gain  glimpses  of  habitations 
higher  than  earth,  and  destinies  nobler  than  those  of  time. 
Bold  as  the  assertion  looks,  we  should  question  the  power 
of  any  man  to  be  a  docile  and  accurate  disciple  of  the 
Comte  school  of  philosophy,  who  found  the  highest  enjoy- 
ment of  understanding  and  sympathy  in  the  works  of  Do 
Quincey ! 

When,  beneath  all  its  drapery  of  cloud  and  rainbow,  the 
grand  physiognomic  outlines  of  De  Quincey's  mind  reveal 
themselves  to  the  reader,  his  primary  observation  will  prob- 
ably be,  that  it  is  marked  by  an  extraordinary  analytic 
faculty.  De  Quincey's  own  opinion  declares  this  to  be  the 
principal  power  in  his  mind ;  and  though  we  should  not 
deem  this  in  itself  conclusive,  we  cannot  but  think  it  strongly 
confirmatory  of  the  general  evidence  gathered  from  other 
quarters.  "My  proper  vocation,"  these  are  his  words,  "as  I 
well  knew,  was  the  exercise  of  the  analytic  understanding." 
The  more  we  know  of  De  Quincey's  writings,  the  more  are 
we  driven  to  the  conviction,  that  his  mind  is,  in  this  regard, 
of  an  extremely  high  order.  His  intensely  clear  perception 
of  the  relation  between  ideas,  the  delight  with  which  he 
expatiates  in  regions  of  pure  abstraction,  where  no  light 
lives  but  that  of  the  "  inevitable  eye"  of  the  mind,  the  ease 
with  which  he  unravels  and  winds  off  what  appears  a  mere 
skein  of  cloud  streamers,  too  closely  twined  to  be  taken 
apart,  and  too  delicate  not  to  rend  asunder,  afford  irresist- 


20  THOMAS    DE   QUINCEY 

ible  evidence  of  rare  analytic  power.  That  our  words  may 
be  seen  to  be  no  rhetorical  painting  of  our  own  fancies,  but 
a  feeble  attempt  to  indicate  a  fact,  we  shall  glance  cursorily 
at  one  or  two  of  those  portions  of  De  Quincey's  works  which 
give  attestation  of  this  power. 

The  science  of  political  economy  is  remarkable  as  one  of 
those  in  which  the  abstract  and  the  concrete  are  seen  most 
clearly  in  their  mutual  relations.  Beginning  with  mere 
abstractions,  or  what  appear  such,  with  factors  which  must 
be  dealt  with  algebraically,  and  seem  absolutely  independent 
of  practice,  it  proceeds  onwards  until  it  embraces  every 
complexity  of  our  social  existence,  until  every  mathematical 
line  is  turned  into  an  actual,  visible  extension,  and  every 
ideal  form  has  to  take  what  shape  it  can  amid  the  jostling 
and  scrambling  of  life.  It  is  thus,  in  our  opinion,  perhaps 
the  very  best  study  in  which  a  man  can  engage  for  the  cul- 
ture of  his  argumentative  nature.  For,  as  we  say,  it  has 
every  stage :  it  demands  mathematical  accuracy  in  one  part, 
and  lays  down  rigidly  the  ideal  law ;  it  brings  you  on  till 
you  are  in  the  field  and  workshop,  till  you  have  to  calculate 
the  strength  of  varied  desires,  the  probable  upshot  of  com- 
plicated chances,  the  modifications  produced  by  a  thousand 
nameless  influences.  From  the  mathematical  diagram  to 
the  table  of  statistics,  from  the  academy  to  the  street,  from 
the  closet  of  the  philosopher  to  the  world  of  the  statesman, 
political  economy  conducts  the  student.  Whatever  the 
practical  value  of  the  science  to  the  merchant,  legislator, 
moralist,  or  philanthropist,  —  and  we  have  no  leisure  to 
demonstrate,  as  we  think  is  posssible,  its  practical  value  to 
each,  —  it  scarcely  admits  of  a  doubt,  that,  as  an  instrument 
of  mental  culture,  it  is  invaluable.  But  this  remark  is 
incidental :  we  have  glanced  at  the  general  nature  of  the 
science  of  political  economy,  in  order  that  we  may  exhibit 


AND    HIS   WORKS.  21 

clearly  the  particular  department  in  which  De  Quincey  is 
distinguished.  This,  of  course,  is  the  abstract  portion. 
The  fundamental  laws  of  the  science,  or  rather  the  one 
fundamental  law  on  which  it  is  all  built,  furnished  his  mind 
with  occupation.  This  one  fundamental  law  is  the  law  of 
value.  It  determines  what  is,  viewed  abstractly,  the  grand 
cause  which  fixes  the  relative  value  of  articles,  —  how  much 
of  any  one  will  exchange  for  so  much  of  any  other.  Once 
this  is  found,  you  know  whence  all  deviations  depart,  you 
know  how  each  modifying  element  will  act,  you  have,  so  to 
speak,  formed  your  theory  of  the  seasons,  although  you 
cannot  tell  what  showers  may  fall,  what  winds  may  blow, 
what  ripening  weeks  of  sunshine  may  usher  in  the  harvest. 
"  He,"  says  De  Quincey,  "  who  is  fully  master  of  the  subject 
of  value,  is  already  a  good  political  economist."  We  agree 
with  him,  and  think  that  political  economy  first  and  forever 
became  an  established  science,  when  the  theory  of  value 
was  perfected.  The  honor  of  having  published  the  demon- 
stration belongs  to  David  Ricardo;  but  De  Quincey,  as 
has  so  often  happened,  found  himself  anticipated  with  the 
public.  He  had  arrived  at  the  same  results;  but  little 
remained  for  him  to  .do,  save  to  silence  a  few  objectors 
who  long  continued  to  oppose  Ricardo.  This  he  did  in 
the  "  Templars'  Dialogues,"  in  a  manner  so  clear  and  con- 
clusive, that  assent  may  be  said  to  have  become  synony- 
mous with  comprehension.  It  is  difficult  to  convey  any 
idea  of  these  papers  to  one  who  has  not  read  them.  To 
quote  any  passage  were  an  improvement  upon  the  brick 
sample  of  the  house,  for  it  would  be  to  offer  a  stone  as 
sample  of  an  arch ;  to  abridge  is  out  of  the  question,  for 
they  are  models  of  terseness.  Considered  as  pieces  of 
reasoning,  they  are  truly  masterly.  There  is  an  artiste 
perfection  about  them.     The  beauty  of  precision,  of  clear- 


22  THOMAS   DE   QUINCEY 

ness,  of  absolute  performance  of  the  thing  required,  is  the 
only  beauty  admissible.  Accordingly,  there  is  not  an  illus- 
tration which  is  not  there  simply  because  it-  speaks  more 
clearly  than  words ;  there  are  no  flourishes  of  rhetoric  ;  all 
is  quiet,  orderly,  conclusive,  like  the  British  line  advancing 
to  the  charge,  and  with  the  same  result.  It  is  true  that, 
even  in  them,  De  Quincey  could  not  be  dull,  and  so  there  is 
the  slightest  infusion  of  humor,  which  adds  a  raciness  to  the 
whole,  and  is  thus  promotive  of  the  general  effect.  Mr. 
M'Culloch,  a  man  not  given  to  enthusiasm,  says  of  these 
papers,  that  they  "are  unequalled,  perhaps,  for  brevity, 
pungency,  and  force." 

De  Quincey's  introduction  to  political  economy  was  char- 
acteristic, and  illustrates  remarkably  the  nature  of  his 
powers.  He  took  to  it  as  an  amusement,  when  debility  had 
caused  the  cessation  of  severer  studies.  About  the  year 
1811,  he  became  acquainted  with  a  great  many  books  and 
pamphlets  on  the  subject ;  but  it  seems  that  what  had 
employed  the  concentrated,  protracted,  and  healthful  ener- 
gies of  men  for  about  a  couple  of  centuries,  could  not  for  a 
moment  bide  the  scrutiny  of  his  languishing  eye.  Thus 
politely  and  composedly  does  he  indicate  his  general  impres- 
sion of  what  books,  pamphlets,  speeches,  and  other  compo- 
sitions bearing  on  political  economy  had  come  in  his  way: — 
"I  saw  that  these  were  generally  the  very  dregs  and  rinsings 
of  the  human  intellect ;  and  that  any  man  of  sound  head, 
and  practised  in  wielding  logic  with  a  scholastic  adroitness, 
might  take  up  the  whole  academy  of  modern  economists, 
and  throttle  them  between  heaven  and  earth  with  his  finger 
and  thumb,  or  bray  their  fungus  heads  to  powder  with  a 
lady's  fan."  Such  sudden  and  amazing  proficiency,  we 
presume,  scientific  professors  would  not  extremely  desire. 
Howe^r,  this  surprising  pupil  was  soon  to  meet  the  mas- 


AND    HIS    WORKS.  23 

tor:  —  "At  length,"  he  proceeds,  "in  1819,  a  friond  in 
Edinburgh  sent  me  down  Mr.  Ricardo's  book ;  and,  recur- 
ring to  my  own  prophetic  anticipation  of  the  advent  of 
some  legislator  for  this  science,  I  said,  before  I  had  finished 
the  first  chapter,  *  Thou  art  the  man ! »  Wonder  and 
curiosity  were  emotions  that  had  long  been  dead  in  me. 
Yet  I  wondered  once  more :  I  wondered  at  myself,  that  I 
could  once  again  be  stimulated  to  the  effort  of  reading ; 
and,  much  more,  I  wondered  at  the  book.  Had  this  pro- 
found book  been  really  written  in  England  during  the 
nineteenth  century  ?  *  *  *  *  Could  it  be  that  an  En- 
glishman, and  he  not  in  academic  bowers,  but  oppressed  by 
mercantile  and  senatorial*  cares,  had  accomplished  what  all 
the  universities  of  Europe,  and  a  century  of  thought,  had 
failed  to  advance  even  by  one  hair's  breadth  ?  All  other 
writers  had  been  crushed  and  overlaid  by  the  enormous 
weight  of  facts  and  documents ;  Mr.  Ricardo  had  deduced 
a  priori,  from  the  understanding  itself,  laws  which  first  gave 
a  ray  of  light  into  the  unwieldy  chaos  of  materials,  and  had 
constructed  what  had  been  but  a  collection  of  tentative 
discussions  into  a  science  of  regular  proportions,  now  first 
standing  on  an  eternal  basis." 

Are  our  readers  acquainted  with  the  "Principles  of  Politi- 
cal Economy  and  Taxation,"  by  David  Ricardo  ?  If  not, 
they  will  hardly  appreciate  De  Quincey's  enthusiasm,  or 
understand  what  it  implies.  Butler  and  Edwards  are  by  no 
means  drawing-room  authors,  yet  the  perusal  of  their  works 
seems  to  us  to  approach  the  nature  of  an  intellectual  recre- 
ation, compared  with  that  of  this  book  of  Ricardo's.  We 
consider  it  that  volume  which,  of  all  we  know,  requires  the 
highest  tension  and  effort  of  intellect.     It  has  a  thousand 

*  "Senatorial:"  — this  is  a  mistake.  Ricardo  entered  the  House  of 
Commons  in  1819 ;  his  work  was  published  in  1817.  » 


24  THOMAS    DE    QUINCEY 

times  been  charged  with  obscurity,  and  a  filmy  subtlety  of 
speculation ;  yet  its  difficulty  consists  principally  in  that  it 
is  the  production  of  a  mind  so  exceedingly  clear,  that  it 
could  completely  master  and  fully  embrace  a  subject,  by 
seeing  its  great  leading  points  of  illumination,  without 
tracing  the  path  from  the  one  to  the  other.  Thus  the 
reader  is,  as  it  were,  carried  from  eminence  to  eminence  by 
the  writer,  without  being  shown  the  way  he  travels ;  and 
having  reached  each,  not  by  the  usual  step  by  step  method, 
he  is  moved  to  question  the  reality  of  his  progress,  and  to 
object  to  the  extraordinary  new  method  of  instruction,  in 
which  he  must  ever  and  anon  commit  himself  to  the  strong 
arm  or  wing  of  the  preceptor,  to  be  carried  to  a  higher 
station.  He  feels  that  too  large  a  demand  is  made  on  his 
faith ;  he  wishes  to  walk  a  little  by  sight.  Ricardo  coolly 
sets  him  down,  with  the  assurance '  that  his  progress  has 
been  real,  and  that  now  he  stands  on  a  higher  platform  than 
he  ever  occupied  before ;  but  with  the  declaration,  that  he 
must  find  some  other  to  explain  pedagogically  the  mode  of 
advancement,  since  there  are  further  heights  to  which  his 
guide  must  forthwith  ascend.  Now,  De  Quincey  had  the 
supreme  satisfaction  of  going  side  by  side  with  Ricardo  in 
his  aerial  voyagings ;  he  knew  well  whither  he  was  going, 
and  the  absolute  certainty  that  it  was  onwards ;  he  could 
look  down,  with  a  satisfied,  half-sneering  smile,  upon  the 
strugglers  below,  who  jogged  honestly  but  slowly  along, 
proclaiming  their  distrust  in  all  aerial  carriages.  In  those 
"Templars'  Dialogues"  he  seems  to  sit  in  the  chariot  with 
Ricardo,  laughing  at  Malthus  and  other  disbelievers,  and 
calling  to  them  to  look  up,  and  see  that  all  their  difficulty 
of  apprehension  lies  in  the  fact,  that  the  one  path  is  through 
the  air,  straight  as  an  arrow's  flight,  while  the  other  is  along 
the   ground,  amid  sand  heaps  and  tangled  jungles.     De 


AND    HIS    WORKS.  25 

Quincey  himself  has  admirably  described  the  nature  of 
Ricardo's  obscurity,  by  saying  that,  if  it  can  be  fairly 
alleged  against  him  at  all,  it  can  arise  only  from  "  too  keen 
a  perception  of  the.  truth,  which  may  have  seduced  him  at 
times  into  too  elliptic  a  development  of  his  opinions,  and 
made  him  impatient  of  the  tardy  and  continuous  steps  which 
are  best  adapted  to  the  purposes  of  the  teacher.  For," 
he  adds,  "  the  fact  is,  that  the  laborers  of  the  Mine  (as  I  am 
accustomed  to  call  them),  or  those  who  dig  up  the  metal 
of  truth,  are  seldom  fitted  to  be  also  laborers  of  the  Mint, 
—  that  is,  to  work  up  the  metal  for  current  use."  "  Seed 
corn,"  says  Goethe,  "  should  not  be  ground."  Such  were  the 
difficulty  and  the  obscurity  of  Ricardo.  Now,  we  certainly 
should  found  no  claim  to  an  extraordinary  analytic  faculty 
on  the  mere  power  to  comprehend  any  author ;  but  the  fact 
of  keen  enjoyment,  of  free,  exulting  pleasure  being  derived 
from  the  perusal  of  a  book,  is  always  conclusive  proof  of 
an  affinity  with  the  powers  it  exhibits;  and  the  instant 
recognition  with  which  De  Quincey  welcomed  Ricardo's 
discoveries,  as  well  as  the  perfect  comprehension,  nay,  light 
and  graceful,  and  absolutely  commanding  mastery,  with 
which  he  ever  after  used  and  expounded  them,  may  be 
regarded,  even  independently  of  his  own  words,  as  suffi- 
cient evidence  that  he  himself  had  trodden  the  same  high 
path,  that  the  same  laws  unfolded  themselves,  almost  con- 
temporaneously, to  the  analytic  intellects  of  De  Quincey  and 
Ricardo.  We  claim  not  for  the  former  any  honor  which 
the  succession  of  the  years  denied  him ;  but  when  the  ques- 
tion is  not  of  the  honor  of  a  discovery,  but  the  possession 
of  a  faculty,  our  argument  is  irresistible.  We  think,  there- 
fore, that  in  the  mere  power  of  analysis,  leaving  all  else 
out  of  account,  an  equality  may  be  vindicated  for  De 
Quincey  with   the  great  legislator  in  political   economy. 

FIRST   SERIES.         3 


26  THOMAS    DE    QUINCEY 

More  than  this  we  do  not  claim ;  but  no  one  who  has  any 
acquaintance  with  the  works  of  Ricardo,  will  require  a  fur- 
ther proof  that  the  English  Opium  Eater  is  a  writer  whose 
works  deserve  earnest  study  from  all  who  love  clear  and 
far  seeing  thought. 

Leaving  political  economy,  and  entering  the  wider  field 
of  history,  professing  also  no  longer  to  abide  with  psycho- 
logical correctness  by  the  faculty  of  analysis,  but  seeking 
the  traces  of  general  power  and  clearness  of  intellect,  we 
would  advance  the  general  proposition,  That  De  Quincey 
has  looked  over  the  course  of  humanity  with  such  a  search- 
ing, philosophic  glance,  that,  desultory  though  his  teaching 
has  been,  he  has  discerned  and  embodied  in  his  works 
certain  truths  of  the  last  importance.  They  are  of  that 
sort  which  may  be  called  illuminative;  they  are  rays  of 
light  which  go  along  the  whole  course  of  time,  revealing 
and  harmonizing ;  their  value  can  be  fully  appreciated  only 
when  one  traverses  history,  carrying  them  as  lamps  in  his 
hand,  and  observing  how,  in  their  light,  the  confused 
becomes  orderly,  the  dark  becomes  bright. 

We  cannot  find  a  better  instance  than  in  his  ideas 
regarding  war.  These  furnish,  indeed,  a  remarkable  case, 
and  that  with  which  we  have  been  most  struck ;  we  think 
it  of  itself  sufficient  to  justify  what  we  have  above  advanced. 
We  had  long  been  of  opinion  that  the  ideas  regarding  war, 
which  not  only  floated  in  the  public  mind,  but  found  coun- 
tenance from  men  of  high  and  unquestionable  powers,  were 
singularly  superficial  and  unsound ;  from  Foster  and  Carlyle 
to  John  Bright,  we  heard  no  word  on  the  subject  with 
which  we  could  agree.  It  was  the  first  general  glance, 
and  that  alone,  which  was  taken ;  the  observations  on 
which  the  arguments  were  based,  were  such  as  every 
child  must  again  and  again  have  made,- — that  war  was 


AND   HIS   WORKS.  27 

accompanied  with  great  effusion  of  blood,  that  in  its  scowl 
the  face  of  the  world  gathered  blackness  as  of  death,  that 
there  was  no  enmity  or  personal  quarrel  between  the  indi- 
vidual combatants,  and  the  like.  Foster  we  found  unable 
to  thrill  to  the  ardors  of  the  "Iliad;"  or,  if  he  did  ex- 
perience a  rising  sense  of  its  glories,  we  saw  him  shrinking 
as  from  sin,  and  likening  the  poem  to  a  beautiful  but 
deadly  knife.  Carlyle,  with  a  satire  whose  intense  clever- 
ness made  cool  examination  of  the  philosophic  value  of 
his  words  almost  impossible,  resolved  our  French  wars  into 
the  aimless  volleys  by  which  the  peaceful  inhabitants  of 
two  far-separated  French  and  English  villages  of  "  Dumb- 
drudge"  exterminated  each  other.  "We  found  no  clear 
conception  of  the  function,  in  the  evolution  of  human 
civilization,  of  agencies  in  themselves  calamitous :  no  phil- 
osophic conception  of  war  in  its  real  nature,  as  the  most 
direful  yet  indispensable  of  the  effects  of  reason  acting 
under  the  curse  of  labor  and  the  obscuration  of  sin,  —  the 
sublimely  fearful  yet  necessary  lightning,  which  has  flashed 
in  the  night  of  human  history.  Such  were  our  notions, 
when  we  happened  to  fall  in  with  an  article  by  De  Quincey, 
in  which  he  treated  of  war.  A  glance  was  sufficient.  The 
germs  of  a  whole  philosophy  of  war  were  before  us ;  every 
lingering  doubt  was  dissipated.  And  it  was  a  consoling 
assurance  that  our  views  were  not,  as  they  looked,  pecu- 
liarly savage,  to  find  that  De  Quincey,  whose  womanly 
tenderness  is,  to  our  knowledge,  unexampled  in  literature, 
yet  sympathized,  with  calmest  deliberation  and  profound 
intensity,  in  those  feelings  to  which  men  have  ever  attached 
sublimity,  from  the  shouts  of  Marathon  to  the  thunders  of 
Trafalgar.  But  could  we  have  imagined  a  linguistic  garb 
like  that  in  which  his  reasonings  were  arrayed?  How 
perfect  was  the  mastery  with  which  the  whole  theme  was 


28  THOMAS    DE    QUINCEY 

grasped !  He  played  with  his  subject ;  he  touched  it  with 
his  magician  wand,  and  it  took  what  colors  he  chose. 
Whatever  of  dimness  had  attached  to  our  ideas,  was  dissi- 
pated as  mist  by  sunlight ;  all  was  boldly,  clearly,  definitely 
evolved.  The  thoughts  leaped  forth  in  the  mail  of  logic 
and  the  plumes  of  poetry. 

This  paper  on  war  we  would  cite  as,  on  the  whole,  singu- 
larly characteristic  of  De  Quincey.  Here,  most  emphati- 
cally, is  there  attested  the  danger  of  trusting  to  first 
appearances  and  impressions.  Philosophy  and  fun  so  inter- 
mingle their  parts,  that  one  is  astonished  and  startled. 
Now  all  seems  mirth  and  jollity ;  the  writer  is  intent  on 
proving  that  the  ancients  pilfered  jokes  on  a  large  scale 
from  the  moderns ;  that  it  must  have  been  the  former  and 
not  the  latter,  is  plain,  from  the  fact,  that  those  were 
"heathens,  infidels,  pagan  dogs."  Then  you  have  a  long 
detail  respecting  a  fund  which  is  to  be  commenced  by  a 
half-crown  legacy  of  De  Quincey's,  and  which  is  to  be  put 
into  requisition  when  the  Peace  Congress  has  prevailed, 
and  war  vanishes  from  human  history.  The  fund  may 
accumulate  at  any  interest ;  ere  required,  it  will,  under  any 
circumstances,  have  reached  to  the  moon;  therefore  the 
man  in  the  moon  is  named  a  trustee.  The  destination  of 
the  fund  is  the  support  of  all  those  to  be  put  out  of  em- 
ployment when  armies  and  fleets  are  disbanded;  and  the 
trustees  are  eloquently  and  earnestly  charged  to  deal  hand- 
somely, nor  bring  disgrace  on  the  testator's  memory  by 
niggardliness.  And  all  this  giggling  alternates  with  flashes 
of  revealing  intuition,  which  rectify  your  every  idea  of 
human  history,  with  truths  which  open  up  to  you  the 
vista  of  the  past,  and  enable  you  to  define  the  position  of 
humanity  in  the  present.  It  is  an  intermingled  dance  of 
northern    lights,    and    far-illumining    gleams   of   precious 


AND   HIS   WORKS.  29 

radiance.  The  writer  is  as  one  sitting  in  a  chariot  at 
a  Roman  carnival,  and  flinging,  from  the  same  hand, 
crackers,  and  sugar  plums,  and  lumps  of  pure  gold.  Ill 
is  it  for  him  who  sees  the  crackers  and  sugar  plums,  and 
thinks  there  can  be  no  gold !  The  remark  applies  more 
or  less  to  the  whole  range  of  De  Quineey's  writings.  No 
man  can  fail  to  perceive  the  jocularity  of  the  paper  we 
have  been  describing ;  but  if  it  is  important  or  indicative 
of  high  powers  to  see  beneath  all  the  superficial  phenomena 
of  war,  and  discern  its  true  function  in  human  history,  if 
it  is  a  proof  of  profundity,  that  a  clear,  indubitable  light 
is  cast  into  regions  where  Foster  and  Carlyle  stumbled 
about  as  if  blindfold,  then  we  can  appeal  to  the  same  article 
as  a  triumphant  vindication  of  the  sterling  value  of  De 
Quineey's  intellectual  powers.  And  how  strongly  does 
this  confirm  what  we  have  said  respecting  the  perfect  ease, 
the  absolute  want  of  effort,  the  free,  careless  naturalness 
with  which  he  writes. 

De  Quincey  has  devoted  several  papers  to  an  attempted 
proof  that  the  sect  of  Essenes,  mentioned  by  Josephus, 
were  none  other  than  the  early  Christians.  The  series  is 
distinguished  by  great  acuteness  of  argument,  and  possesses 
that  fascination  of  style  which  characterizes  every  produc- 
tion of  the  author.  The  whole  logic  of  the  case  is  brought 
out  in  a  figure,  so  simple,  so  precise,  and  yet  so  graceful, 
that  we  may  quote  it: — "If,  in  an  ancient  palace,  reopened 
after  it  had  been  shut  up  for  centuries,  you  were  to  find  a 
hundred  golden  shafts  or  pillars,  for  which  nobody  could  sug- 
gest a  place  or  a  use ;  and  if,  in  some  other  quarter  of  the 
palace,  far  remote,  you  were  afterwards  to  find  a  hundred 
golden  sockets  fixed  in  the  floor,  —  first  of  all,  pillars  which 
nobody  could  apply  to  any  purpose,  or  refer  to  any  place ; 
secondly,  sockets  which  nobody  could  fill,  —  probably  even 

a* 


30  THOMAS   DE   QUINCEY 

'wicked  Will  Whiston'  might  be  capable  of  a  glimmering 
suspicion  that  the  hundred  golden  shafts  belonged  to  the 
hundred  golden  sockets.  And  if  it  should  turn  out  that 
each  several  shaft  screwed  into  its  own  peculiar  socket,  why, 
in  such  a  case,  not  '  Whiston,  Ditton,  and  Co.'  could  resist 
the  evidence,  that  each  enigma  had  brought  a  key  to  the 
other ;  and  that  by  means  of  two  mysteries  there  had 
ceased  even  to  be  one  mystery."  The  unoccupied  sockets 
are  the  several  heads  in  the  description  of  the  Essenes  by 
Josephus ;  the  missing  pillars,  the  early  Christians.  Thus 
is  the  whole  argument  seen  at  a  glance.  But  we  cannot  say 
that  we  have  been  convinced.  We  indeed  think  it  remark- 
ably probable  that  the  early  Christians  and  the  Essenes 
were  one  and  the  same  ;  but  we  cannot  bring  ourselves  to 
regard  Mr.  De  Quincey's  manner  of  accounting  for  the  name 
satisfactory.  We  cannot  admit  the  theory  of  an  assumed 
disguise  on  the  part  of  the  Christians.  The  plain  command 
to  confess  Christ  before  men ;  the  almost  excessive  valor  of 
the  early  Christians,  prompting  them  to  court  martyrdom ; 
the  contrariety  of  such  a  method  of  defence  to  the  whole 
genius  of  the  opposition  by  the  true  religion  of  all  that  is 
false  in  every  age,  which  has  always  been  to  unsheathe  the 
sword  in  the  face  of  the  foe,  to  fling  away  the  scabbard, 
and  to  defy  him  in  the  name  of  the  Lord;  the  scarcely  con- 
ceivable possibility  of  Christians  suddenly,  as  it  were,  duck- 
ing their  heads  before  the  wave  of  persecution,  and  emerg- 
ing again,  unrecognized,  as  Essenes;  —  these  and  similar 
considerations  close  the  avenues  of  our  mind  to  the  most 
plausible  array  of  proofs  which  could  be  adduced  against 
them.  But  not  only  are  these  papers  marked  by  high 
ingenuity ;  they  contain  striking  gleams  of  insight  into  the 
whole  course  of  the  development  of  Christianity.  We 
think,  for  instance,  that  the  following  remark  is  not  more 


AND   HIS    WORKS.  31 

daring  than  it  is  important :  —  "In  strict  philosophic  truth, 
Christianity  did  not  reach  its  mature  period,  even  of  infancy, 
until  the  days  of  the  Protestant  Reformation."  This  casts 
a  light  before  and  after.  And  it  is  a  sublime  idea  to  which 
it  leads ;  —  the  idea  of  the  whole  human  race,  through  long 
millenniums,  gazing  upon  the  handwriting  of  God,  and  only 
in  the  slow  course  of  centuries  spelling  it  out.  There  is 
also,  in  the  articles  before  us,  an  exactness  of  conception  as 
to  what  Christianity  really  is,  which  sets  De  Quincey  at  a 
quite  immeasurable  distance  from  your  general  Christian 
litterateur.  He  does  not  confound  it  with  "  virtue,"  or  any 
conceivable  ethical  theory ;  he  does  not,  with  a  mouth 
homage  which  is  but  disguised  atheism,  lay  artistic  hands 
on  Christianity,  and  take  it,  like  any  old  mythology,  to  play 
a  part,  or  to  act  as  a  background,  in  an  art  novel ;  he  recog- 
nizes the  perennial,  supernatural  element  inextricably  in- 
volved in  its  very  idea,  the  continual  action  from  age  to 
age  of  the  Spirit  of  God  on  the  mind  of  man.  In  various 
parts  of  his  works,  indeed,  De  Quincey  exhibits  a  profound 
insight  into  the  spirit  and  nature  of  Christianity,  —  its 
essential  distinction  from  Paganism,  as  a  system  of  doc- 
trines and  morals,  and  not  a  mere  ritual,  and  its  absolute 
agreement  with  what  is  darkest  and  deepest  in  the  human 
heart  and  history. 

We  have  lingered  perhaps  too  long  on  the  subject  of  De 
Quincey's  strictly  intellectual  powers ;  but  we  regret  the 
less  having  done  so,  because  it  is  here  that  our  remarks  may 
be  of  the  greatest  practical  value.  All  men  acknowledge 
De  Quincey's  genius ;  all  men  appreciate,  more  or  less,  the 
grandeur  and  the  delicacy  of  his  imagination ;  all  own  the 
supremacy  of  his  command  over  the  English  tongue.  But 
we  think  it  is  not  so  generally  conceded,  that  he  is  a  sub- 
stantially valuable  thinker ;  that  there  is  not  only  treasure 


32  THOMAS   DE    QUINCEY 

of  intellectual  amusement,  that  there  are  not  only  master- 
pieces of  style,  within  the  compass  of  his  works,  but  that 
there  is  much  also  of  that  intellectual  stuff  with  which  one 
might  build  up  his  system  of  opinion,  or  on  which  he  might 
nourish  his  highest  powers.  Even  this  we  have  not  so  much 
proved,  as  indicated  the  means  of  proving.  We  might  have 
enlarged  on  the  vast  stores  of  his  learning,  and  still  more  on 
the  perfect  command  he  has  over  them  all ;  how  with  the 
true  poetic  might  he  can  fling  a  subject  into  the  furnace  of 
his  genius,  shapeless,  rugged,  and  drossy  as  it  may  be,  and 
show  us  it  again  flowing  out  in  the  purity  and  brightness 
of  molten  gold ;  how  at  eleven  he  was  a  brilliant  Latin 
scholar,  and  at  fifteen  could  talk  Greek,  with  such  fluency 
and  correctness,  that  his  master  said  he  could  address  an 
Athenian  mob  better  than  his  instructor  an  English  ;  how 
he  studied  mathematics,  and  metaphysics,  and  theology, 
and  scholastic  logic,  and  all  which  could  give  exercise  to  his 
soul  in  the  herculean  youth  of  its  powers.  But  we  say  no 
more.  We  think  we  have  said  enough  to  make  good  our 
point.  We  differ  from  De  Quincey  in  several  respects  :  we 
fear  that,  in  theology,  we  march  nearer  to  the  standard  of 
Calvin  than  he  would  approve ;  we  have  already  intimated 
our  discontent  with  certain  of  his  arguments  on  the  identity 
of  the  early  Christians  and  Essenes  ;  we  think  he  has  under- 
rated John  Foster,  and  he  has  certainly  outstripped  our 
charity  in  the  case  of  Judas :  but  yet  we  esteem  him,  and 
we  think  our  readers  will  agree  with  us  in  esteeming  him,  a 
really  powerful  thinker,  whose  criticism  upon  human  knowl- 
edge, and  whose  direct  contributions  to  its  stores,  are 
worthy  of  being  eagerly  seized  and  earnestly  scrutinized 
by  thoughtful  minds. 

Wc  have  spoken  hitherto  of  what  may  be  figured  as  the 
skeleton  or  bare  framework  of  De  Quineey's  mind.     We 


AND   HIS    WORKS.  33 

have  found  him  here  comparable  with  Ricardo.  But  now 
we  pass  to  a  different  delineation.  We  leave  Ricardo  and 
all  dry  algebraists,  geometricians,  metaphysicians,  and 
scholastics  behind.  We  come  to  look  upon  the  glorious 
garment  of  sympathy  in  which  De  Quincey's  mind  is  robed, 
and  his  grand  imaginative  eye,  whose  glance  can  clothe 
every  algebraic  formula  in  light  as  of  the  stars.  He  him- 
self speaks  of  the  "  two  hemispheres,  as  it  were,  that  com- 
pose the  total  world  of  human  power,  —  mathematics  on  the 
one  hand,  poetry  on  the  other ; "  and  we  must  think  that  he 
can  expatiate  in  both.  It  is  our  belief,  indeed,  that  every 
mind  of  a  very  high  order  can.  It  is  of  beneficent  arrange- 
ment that  men  in  general  are  furnished  with  distinct  ten- 
dencies and  powers :  it  is  well  that  each  man  does  his  own 
work  best,  and  even  has  a  certain  suppressed  feeling  that 
his  special  work  is  the  most  important  in  this  world.  But 
it  is  a  positive  and  confounding  error  to  apply  the  general 
rule  to  the  few  individual  minds  which  rise  far  above  the 
common  level.  Of  these  minds  we  think  no  assertion  can 
be  made  with  less  of  hesitancy  or  qualification,  than  that 
their  powers  and  sympathies  are  diverse.  We  can  trace 
the  smothered  gleams  of  a  burning  imagination  through  the 
works  of  Jonathan  Edwards,  like  volcanic  fires  kept  under 
by  the  solid  ground,  and  towered  cities,  and  stable  moun- 
tains, of  some  Italy  or  Trinacria.  Plato  was  the  greatest 
prose  poet  that  ever  lived;  the  softening  radiance  of  poetic 
light  which  played  over  the  massive  intellect  of  Luther  gave 
it  a  beauty  which  will  never  fade ;  and  we  have  no  doubt 
that  imaginative  fire  burned  in  the  unwavering,  far-search- 
ing eye  of  Calvin.  To  borrow  a  suggestion  from  those  words 
of  De  Quincey  regarding  the  hemispheres,  we  would  say, 
that  all  great  men  have  an  intellectual  night  and  an  intel- 
lectual day :  in  the  still,  vast  night,  when  no  color  rests  on 


34  THOMAS   DE   QUINCEY 

the  earth,  and  the  stars  in  their  courses  are  treading  the 
fields  of  immensity,  they  look  up  calm  and  abstracted,  to 
learn,  by  pure,  unimpassioned  thought,  the  laws  of  nature 
and  of  truth ;  in  the  blaze  of  day's  sunlight,  when  the  world 
is  arrayed  in  its  robe  of  many  colors,  and  clouds,  waves,  and 
forests  are  rejoicing  in  beauty,  they  also  share  the  joy,  and 
take  of  the  glories  of  nature  to  clothe  the  thoughts  revealed 
to  them  in  the  silent  night. 

We  are  not  prepared  to  say  that  what  De  Quincey  has 
actually  accomplished  will  prove  sufficient  to  vindicate  for 
him  a  place  among  the  mighty  ones  of  bygone  ages,  among 
the  few  who  occupy  the  intellectual  thrones  of  the  world ; 
but  we  do  say,  that  there  are  unmistakeable  traces  that  his 
natural  endowment  was  of  this  royal  order,  that,  in  the  two 
great  forms  of  intellect  —  the.  imaginative  and  the  abstrac- 
tive —  he  was  magnificently  gifted.  The  reader  has  seen 
how  he  was  affected  by  Ricardo's  political  economy,  —  it  was 
a  case  of  positive,  rapturous  delight.  But  now  hear  this : — 
u  A  little  before  that  time  (1799),  Wordsworth  had  published 
the  first  edition  fin  a  single  volume)  of  the  '  Lyrical  Bal- 
lads;' and  into  this  had  been  introduced  Mr.  Coleridge's 
poem  of  the  '  Ancient  Mariner,'  as  the  contribution  of  an 
anonymous  friend.  It  would  be  directing  the  reader's  atten- 
tion too  much  to  myself,  if  I  were  to  linger  upon  this,  the 
greatest  event  in  the  unfolding  of  my  own  mind.  Let  me 
say,  in  one  word,  that,  at  a  period  when  neither  the  one  nor 
the  other  writer  was  valued  by  the  public,  —  both  having  a 
long  warfare  to  accomplish  of  contumely  and  ridicule,  before 
they  could  rise  into  their  present  estimation,  —  I  found  in 
their  poems  '  the  ray  of  a  new  morning,'  and  an  absolute 
revelation  of  untrodden  worlds,  teeming  with  power  and 
beauty  as  yet  unsuspected  among  men."  These  are  the 
words  of  De  Quincey.     Now,  we  think  it  a  very  remarkable 


AND    HIS    WORKS.  33 

fact,  and  one  to  which,  in  forming  any  estimate  of  the 
author  of  whom  we  treat,  great  importance  is  to  be  attached, 
that  he  was  the  first,  or  among  the  first,  to  hail  the  rising, 
in  quarters  of  the  literary  heaven  so  widely  apart,  and  with 
such  an  antithetic  diversity  of  radiance  of  two  such  stars  as 
Wordsworth  and  Ricardo.  The  light  of  Ricardo  is  perhaps, 
in  every  sense,  good  and  bad,  the  driest  in  English  literature ; 
the  general  intellect  even  of  practical  England  turns  away 
from  it.  Wordsworth  is,  of  all  poets,  the  furthest  removed 
from  the  practical  world :  he  is  the  listener  to  the  voice  of 
woods,  the  watcher  of  the  wreathing  of  the  clouds ;  he 
can  drink  a  tender  and  intense  pleasure  from  the  waving  of 
the  little  flower,  from  the  form  of  its  star-shaped  shadow  ; 
he  can  even  enter,  by  inexpressible  delicacy  of  poetic  sym- 
pathy, into  the  feelings  which  his  own  creative  power  im- 
parts, and  wish  that  little  flower 

"  Conscious  of  half  the  pleasure  that  it  gives  :* 

from  him,  too,  the  general  intellect  of  practical  England,  as 
proved  in  the  case  of  Arnold,  turns  away  dissatisfied.  In 
the  range  of  De  Quincey's  sympathies  —  and  the  sympathies 
are  the  voices  or  the  ministers  of  the  powers,  the  leaves  by 
which  the  plant  drinks  in  the  air  of  heaven  —  there  was 
compass  for  both. 

It  is  no  fable  of  poetry  or  dream  of  a  fevered  brain, 
that  the  human  mind  is  a  macrocosm  of  nature ;  it  is  a 
fact  to  which  even  physiological  science  is  now  according 
her  assent,  and  which  a  psychological  comparison  of  the 
intellects  of  the  great  and  the  small  in  all  ages  would 
irresistibly  demonstrate.  Weakness  of  intellect  and  little- 
ness of  intellect  are  found,  when  well  examined,  to  mean 
narrowness  of  intellect :  trace  men,  through  all  their  grades, 
from  those  humble  forms  of  the  "  world  school,"  where 


36  THOMAS    DE    QUIXCEY 

sit  the  artisan,  the  husbandman,  and  the  private  soldier, 
until  you  reach  that  august  region  where  human  history 
and  all  time  seem  to  be  spread  out,  one  imperial  domain, 
beneath  the  sky-like  dome  of  the  mind  of  Shakspeare ;  you 
will  find  every  increase  of  greatness  accompanied  by,  we 
had  almost  said  synonymous  with,  expansion  of  range.  And 
we  certainly  know  of  nothing  in  modern  literary  history  so 
boldly  and  strikingly  demonstrative  of  a  superb  natural 
endowment,  as  the  delight,  which  his  own  words  show  to 
have  been  rapturous,  with  which  De  Quincey  watched,  on 
the  one  hand,  the  unimpassioned  Ricardo  threading  with 
his  safety-lamp  the  unexplored  labyrinths  of  political  econo- 
my ;  and  gazed,  on  the  other,  on  nature  in  the  dewy  light 
cast  over  it  by  Wordsworth,  and  marked,  yet  again,  the 
magician  Coleridge,  as  he  blended  the  glories  of  chaos  and 
creation  in  one  wondrous  phantasmagoria  round  his  spectral 
ship  and  his  spectral  mariner.  I  am  a  man,  and  nothing 
human  do  I  deem  foreign  to  me :  the  sentiment  is  too  true 
to  grow  Old ;  and  the  more  human  I  am,  the  nearer  I  ap- 
proach to  what  a  man  may  be,  the  less  is  there,  in  all  that 
can  be  seen  or  heard,  thought  or  imagined,  in  air,  earth,  or 
ocean,  in  literature,  science,  or  art,  in  all  this  universe, 
which  will  be  foreign  to  me. 

And  since  the  sympathies  are,  as  we  said,  but  the  ministers 
of  the  powers,  since  sympathy  is  the  reconciling,  and  win- 
ning, and  gathering  invitation,  at  whose  voice  all  that  there 
is  of  beauty  in  stars,  and  clouds,  and  dew  drops,  and  the 
golden  leaflets  with  which  summer  fringes  her  robe  of  green, 
comes  obsequiously  to  the  imagination  which  can  marshal 
them  in  a  new  order,  or  bid  a  new  creation  arise  from  their 
combination,  the  question  here  presses  itself  upon  us  — 
What  has  De  Quincey  himself  done,  and  what  field  of 
truth  has  lie  opened  up,  what  great  poetic  structure  has  he 


AND    HIS    WORKS.  •  37 

built  ?  The  answer  is  one  which  can  be  easily  rendered, 
but  which  must  create  sad  reflections.  We  unhesitatingly 
say  De  Quincey  has  done  much,  but  we  profoundly  and 
sorrowfully  feel  that  he  might  have  done  much,  incalculably 
much,  more.  Coleridge  rose  gloriously  sunward  in  his 
mighty  youth,  sweeping  at  once  into  fields  of  the  poetic 
heaven  which  had  not  been  entered  since  the  days  of  Milton. 
But,  as  if  some  maddening  or  bewildering  enchantment  had 
fallen  on  him,  it  was  seen  that  the  aerial  poise  of  his  wings 
became  unsteady,  he  seemed  to  stagger  in  the  sky,  and  never 
again,  however  grand  his  convulsive  flappings,  however  de- 
termined his  efforts  to  sustain  his  upward  flight,  did  he  sail 
with  aught  of  the  Miltonic  strength  or  the  Miltonic  majesty. 
That  maddening  enchantment  was  opium.  Under  its  tre- 
mendous sway  fell  also  De  Quincey.  The  English  tongue 
seems  somewhat  too  practically  framed  to  serve  well  the 
purpose  of  lamenting  ;  it  affects  rather  the  battle  melody, 
or  the  song  of  the  worker ;  and  whatever  its  powers  may  be 
in  this  direction,  we  shall  not  here  tune  it  to  elegaic  mur- 
murings.  It  is  a  truly  British  sentiment  which  Carlyle 
expresses,  when  he  says  :  — 

"  "lis  a  thriftless  thing  to  be  sad,  sad ; 
"lis  a  thriftless  thing  to  be  sad." 

We  shall  abandon  then  the  language  of  regret,  and  en- 
deavor rather  to  find  cause  of  rejoicing  in  what  has  actually 
been  realized  for  us  by  De  Quincey.  And  truly,  if  it  may 
appear  startling  or  absurd  to  speak  of  the  English  language 
as  inexpressive  of  sorrow,  when  it  is  the  language  in  which 
De  Quincey  has  written,  while  yet  what  we  allege  remains 
true, — since  it  is  a  noble,  an  elevating  sorrow,  a  sorrow  which 
makes  us  weep  no  weak  or  ignoble  tears,  and  is  immeasur- 
ably removed  from  whining,  to  which  De  Quincey  has  given 

FIRST   SERIES,         4 


38  THOMAS    DE    QUINCEY 

expression,  —  we  may  say  that  the  sorrow  with  which  we 
regard  the  influence  exerted  over  De  Quincey  by  opium,  is 
one  which  is  unusually  and  wondrously  chequered  by  gleams 
of  gladness.  We  confess  that  sorrow  is,  on  the  whole,  the 
prevailing  emotion  in  our  minds,  when  we  regard  the  total 
phenomenon ;  for  we  are  convinced  that  nature  in  perfect 
health  will  always  work  more  grandly  than  nature  in  any 
conceivable  state  of  disease,  and  we  doubt  not  that  all  the 
beauty  which  we  now  admire  in  the  writings  of  De  Quincey, 
had  been  secured  and  enhanced  had  he  never  known  the 
delirious  joys  or  sorrows  of  opium.  Yet  who  that  has 
looked  in  wondering  admiration  at  what  he  has  actually 
done,  can  pretend  to  say  that  he  can  know,  by  any  effort  of 
conceptive  sight,  and  not  solely  by  faith,  what  potentialities 
of  grander  performance  De  Quincey  did  possess  ?  Are  we 
sure  that,  had  there  been  no  opium  in  the  case,  such  efforts 
had  been  suggested,  or  that  a  canvass  would  have  been 
found  for  such  picturings  ? 

We  suppose  it  will  be  agreed  that  there  is  nothing  in  our 
language  to  be  compared  with  De  Quincey's  dreams  ;  nay, 
to  speak  of  comparison  is  inadmissible,  for  they  are  abso- 
lutely alone ;  all  other  authors  who  have  ventured  on  vision- 
ary delineations  —  and  of  these  there  are  enough  —  would 
grant  that  their  dreams  were  generically  different  from  his. 
In  Germany,  there  have  been  two  writers  who  can  be  put 
in  comparison  with  him,  —  Richter  and  Novalis.  His  own 
translations  and  Carlyle's  have  made  us  familiar  with  the 
terrors  and  the  glories  of  Jean  Paul's  dreams.  The 
"  Dream  upon  the  Universe,"  which  De  Quincey  rendered 
into  English  in  the  "  London  Magazine,"  and  various  others 
which  are  widely  known,  enable  us  to  form  a  definite  opinion 
regarding  his  general  manner ;  and  we  record  it  as  our  de- 
cided impression,  that  it  may  be  maintained  as  a  general 


AND   HIS   WORKS.  39 

truth,  that  there  reigns  over  De  Quincey's  dream  creations 
a  taste  more  austerely  classic,  more  chaste,  more  majestic, 
than  ruled  those  of  Richter.  The  "  Suspiria "  have  been 
much  lauded;  we  acknowledge  their  surpassing  power; 
but  it  is  to  the  "  Dream  Fugue,"  founded  on  the  "  Vision  of 
Sudden  Death,"  that  we  point,  with  calmest  assurance,  as 
illustrating  our  general  remark,  and  demonstrating  the  su- 
periority of  De  Quincey  over  Jean  Paul.  In  the  visions  of 
the  latter  there  is  a  certain  barbaric  splendor,  a  chaotic 
wildness,  a  bewildering  accumulation  of  fearful  or  of  gor- 
geous images,  suggestive  rather  of  the  fury  and  might  of 
the  tempest  than  of  the  strength  of  light.  The  supremacy 
of  order  seems,  as  it  were,  questioned  or  questionable.  The 
picture  is  hidden  by  its  own  drapery ;  the  melody  scarce 
traceable  in  the  immeasurable  volume  of  sound.  Right  or 
wrong,  the  British  intellect  cannot  tolerate  indistinctness. 
Now,  in  that  succession  of  dreams  which  we  have  mentioned, 
and  which  seems  to  us  to  constitute  De  Quincey's  master- 
piece, there  is,  over  all  the  splendor  and  terror,  a  clear 
serenity  of  light  which  belongs  to  the  very  highest  style  of 
poetic  beauty.  The  conceptions  are  very  daring,  but  each 
form  of  spurious  originality  is  absent,  —  the  fantastic  and 
the  grotesque  ;  there  is  the  mystery  of  the  land  of  dreams, 
yet  so  powerful  is  the  imagination  which  strikes  the  whole 
into  being,  that  the  wondrous  picture  has  the  vividness  and 
truth  of  reality ;  while,  with  every  change  of  scene  and 
emotion,  the  language  changes  too  —  now  rich,  glowing, 
and  bold,  when  the  idea  is  free,  sunny  joyousness  —  now 
melting  into  a  gentle,  spiritual  melody  of  more  than  iEolian 
softness  —  and  now  rising  to  a  Homeric  swell,  that  echoes 
the  everlasting  gallop  of  the  steeds  which  drag  that  trium- 
phal car.  This  "  Dream  Fugue  "  is  of  no  great  compass, 
but  we  think  that  it  would  alone  have  been  sufficient  to 


40  THOMAS    DE   QUINCEY 

secure  a  literary  immortality.  Taken  in  connection  with 
the  incident  which  was  its  occasion  ;  considered  as  a  poetic 
idealization  of  reality,  and  an  effort  of  linguistic  power ; 
tried  by  the  severe  rules  of  art,  as  demanding  the  very  high- 
est manifestation  of  order  and  harmony  possible  by  man, 
we  think  we  could  maintain  against  all  comers  that  this  is, 
for  its  size,  the  noblest  production  in  English  prose.  And 
we  cannot  but  think  that  nothing  so  perfect  ever  rose  before 
the  imagination  of  Jean  Paul  Richter.  The  little  we  know 
of  the  dream  paintings  of  Novalis  leads  us  to  think  that 
there  is  a  closer  similarity  between  his  manner  and  De 
Quincey's,  than  subsists  in  the  case  we  have  mentioned. 
The  delicacy,  the  mildness,  and  the  powerful  imagination  of 
Novalis,  remind  us  strongly  of  De  Quincey ;  but  we  do  not 
know  enough  of  his  writings  to  draw  a  detailed  parallel. 

We  are  utterly  unable  to  justify  to  our  readers  the  above 
opinion  respecting  the  "  Dream  Fugue ; "  and  we  have  a 
certain  reluctance  to  associate  any  description  we  could 
give  with  the  impressions  which  the  original  is  fitted  to 
produce.  But  we  feel  it  necessary  to  give  at  least  some- 
thing like  positive  proof  that  our  words  are  not  those  of 
extravagance ;  and  therefore  we  compel  ourselves  to  at- 
tempt to  extract  one  or  two  such  pieces  from  the  "gorgeous 
mosaic"  of  this  dream,  as  may,  though  faintly,  suggest  an 
idea  of  the  whole. 

During  the  French  war,  De  Quincey  used  to  come  down 
annually  on  the  mail-coach  from  London  to  Lancashire.  It 
was  the  office  of  the  mail  to  spread  the  news  of  the  great 
victories.  On  one  occasion,  he  came  down  after  a  great 
battle.  An  incident  which  occurred  on  the  way  was  the 
occasion  of  the  "Dream  Fugue."  It  was  a  night  which  De 
Quincey  alone  was  capable  of  describing  :  — 

"  Obliquely  we  were  nearing  the  sea  upon  our  left,  which 


AND   HIS    WORKS.  41 

also  must,  under  the  present  circumstances,  be  repeating 
the  general  state  of  halcyon  repose.  The  sea,  the  atmos- 
phere, the  light,  bore  an  orchestral  part  in  this  universal 
lull.  Moonlight  and  the  first  timid  tremblings  of  the  dawn 
were  now  blending ;  and  the  blendings  were  brought  into 
a  still  more  exquisite  state  of  unity  by  a  slight  silvery  mist, 
motionless  and  dreamy,  that  covered  the  woods  and  fields ; 
but  with  a  vail  of  equable  transparency.  ***** 
Still,  in  the  confidence  of  children  that  tread  without  fear 
every  chamber  in  their  father's  house,  and  to  whom  no 
door  is  closed,  we,  in  that  sabbatic  vision  which  sometimes 
is  revealed  for  an  hour  upon  nights  like  this,  ascend  with 
easy  steps  from  the  sorrow-stricken  fields  of  earth  upwards 
to  the  sandals  of  God.  Suddenly  from  thoughts  like  these 
I  was  awakened  to  a  sullen  sound,  as  of  some  motion  on 
the  distant  road.  It  stole  upon  the  air  for  a  moment ;  I 
listened  in  awe  ;  but  then  it  died  away." 

The  coachman  was  last  asleep,  and  could  not  be  awaked ; 
the  horses  were  going  at  a  fearful  pace ;  the  mail  was 
heavy.  It  was  on  the  wrong  side  of  the  road.  Any  living 
thing,  or  any  vehicle  containing  such,  which  came  across 
its  path,  must  go  to  shivers.  All  this  and  more  De  Quincey 
comprehended  at  one  intuitive  glance.  "  Ah,  reader !  what 
a  sullen  mystery  of  fear,  what  a  sigh  of  woe,  seemed  to 
steal  upon  the  air,  as  again  the  far  off  sound  of  a  wheel  was 
heard!"  On  they  dashed;  every  effort  he  made  in  the 
way  of  remedy  was  vain ;  at  last  the  horses,  by  this  time 
at  fiery  speed,  swept  round  an  angle  of  the  road,  and  all 
was  revealed.  "Before  us  lay  an  avenue,  straight  as  an 
arrow,  six  hundred  yards,  perhaps,  in  length;  and  the 
umbrageous  trees  which  rose  in  a  regular  line  from  either 
side,  meeting  high  overhead,  gave  to  it  the  character  of  a 
cathedral  aisle.     These  trees  lent  a  deeper  solemnity  to  the 


42  THOMAS   DE    QUINCEY 

early  light ;  but  there  was  still  light  enough  to  perceive,  at 
the  further  end  of  this  Gothic  aisle,  a  light,  reedy  gig,  in 
which  were  seated  a  young  man,  and  by  his  side  a  young 
lady."  These  are  either  married,  or  in  the  highest  state 
of  love ;  for  a  reason  which  De  Quincey  and  we  do  not 
understand,  the  young  man  "carries  his  lips  forward  to 
hers."  "The  little  carriage  is  creeping  on  at  one  mile 
an  hour;  and  the  parties  within  it  being  thus  tenderly 
engaged,  are  naturally  bending  down  their  heads.  Be- 
tween them  and  eternity,  to  all  human  calculation,  there  is 
but  a  minute  and  a  half."  De  Quincey  shouts ;  at  the 
second  shout  the  young  man  takes  the  alarm.  He  has  just 
time  to  raise  his  horse's  fore  feet  by  a  strain  on  the  reins, 
•>  and  pull  him  round,  and  make  him  take  one  leap  forward, 
v*  when  the  mail  tears  past.  In  its  way,  it  gives  a  stroke  to 
. y  the  little  gig,  which  makes  it  shiver  as  a  thing  alive  ;  those 
who  sit  there  all  but  taste  the  agony  of  death,  yet  are 
safe.  M  The  blow,  from  the  fury  of  our  passage,  resounded 
terrifically.  I  rose  in  horror,  to  look  upon  the  ruins  we 
might  have  caused.  From  my  elevated  station  I  looked 
down,  and  looked  back  upon  the  scene,  which  in  a  moment 
told  its  tale,  and  wrote  all  its  records  on  my  heart  forever. 

********* 

"But  the  lady !  Oh,  heavens!   will  that  spectacle 

ever  depart  from  my  dreams,  as  she  rose  and  sank  upon 
her  seat,  sank  and  rose,  threw  up  her  arms  wildly  to 
heaven,  clutched  at  some  visionary  object  in  the  air,  faint- 
ing, praying,  raving,  despairing !  Figure  to  yourself, 
reader,  the  elements  of  the  case  ;  suffer  me  to  recall  before 
your  mind  the  circumstances  of  the  unparalleled  situation. 
From  the  silence  and  deep  peace  of  this  saintly  summer 
night,  —  from  the  pathetic  Mendings  of  this  sweet  moon- 
light, dawn-light,  dream-light,  — from  the  manly  tenderness 


AND   HIS    WORKS.  43 

of  this  flattering,  whispering,  murmuring  love,  —  suddenly 
as  from  the  woods  and  fields,  —  suddenly  as  from  the  cham- 
bers of  the  air,  opening  in  revelation,  —  suddenly  as  from 
the  ground  yawning  at  her  feet,  leaped  upon  her,  with  the 
flashing  of  cataracts,  Death,  the  crowned  phantom,  with 
all  the  equipage  of  his  terrors,  and  the  tiger  roar  of  his 
voice. 

"  The  moments  were  numbered.  In  the  twinkling  of  an 
eye,  our  flying  horses  had  carried  us  to  the  termination  of 
the  umbrageous  aisle  ;  at  right  angles,  we  wheeled  into  our 
former  direction ;  the  turn  Vf  the  road  carried  the  scene 
out  of  my  eyes  in  an  instant,  and  swept  it  into  my  dreams 
forever." 

The  elements  with  which  the  writer  works  in  the  "Dream 
Fugue"  are  now  before  the  reader :  the  coach  at  an  unusual 
pace,  and  laurelled  with  the  tokens  of  victory,  the  umbrage- 
ous avenue  like  a  cathedral  aisle,  the  narrow  escape  of  the 
lady.  These  reappear  in  the  "Fugue"  in  various  forms, 
and  transfigured  by  the  light  of  an  imagination  which 
creatively  remodels,  recombines,  and  illumes  the  whole. 
The  mail-coach  becomes  a  triumphal  car,  on  whose  path  all 
nations  attend,  and  which  carries  to  all  peoples,  hi  letters 
of  mystic  light,  the  tidings  of  a  victory  which  has  broken 
the  bonds  of  the  world ;  over  the  heads  of  the  horses  the 
tidings  go,  embodied  in  this  legend,  which  casts  around  a 
golden  light,  "Waterloo  and  Recovered  Christendom." 
The  gates  of  cities  fly  open ;  rivers  are  silent,  as  the  car,  in 
its  tremendous  gallop,  dashes  across  them;  "the  infinite 
forests"  shiver  in  homage  to  the  word.  The  umbrageous 
avenue  becomes  an  immeasurable  cathedral  aisle,  along 
which  the  tireless  steeds  sweep  onwards  in  almost  viewless 
speed.  In  the  far  distance  is  seen  a  vast  necropolis,  "a 
city  of  sepulchres,  built  within  the  saintly  cathedral  for  the 


44  THOMAS    DE   QUINCEY 

warrior  dead  that  rested  from  their  feuds  on  earth."  "  Of 
purple  granite  was  the  necropolis  ;  yet,  in  the  first  minute, 
it  lay  like  a  purple  stain  upon  the  horizon,  —  so  mighty  was 
the  distance.  In  the  second  minute  it  trembled  through 
many  changes,  growing  into  terraces  and  towers  of  won- 
drous altitude,  so  mighty  was  the  pace.  In  the  third 
minute,  already,  with  our  dreadful  gallop,  we  were  enter- 
ing its  suburbs.  Vast  sarcophagi  rose  on  every  side,  having 
towers  and  turrets  that,  upon  the  limits  of  the  central  aisle, 
strode  forward  with  haughty  intrusion,  that  ran  back  with 
mighty  shadows  into  answering  recesses.  Every  sarcoph- 
agus showed  many  bas-reliefs,  —  bas-reliefs  of  battles,  bas- 
reliefs  of  battle  fields;  of  battles  from  forgotten  ages, — 
of  battles  from  yesterday,  —  of  battle  fields  that,  long  since, 
nature  had  healed  and  reconciled  to  herself  with  the  sweet 
oblivion  of  flowers,  —  of  battle  fields  that  were  yet  angry 
and  crimson  with  carnage."  And  the  lady,  —  what  has 
become  of  her  ?  Does  she  still  occupy  a  place  in  the 
wondrous  pageant  ?  Yes  :  her  transformation  is  the  most 
strange,  and  yet,  in  its  beauty,  the  most  perfect  of  all. 
Look  again :  —  "  And  now  had  we  reached  the  last  sarcoph- 
agus, now  were  we  abreast  of  the  last  bas-relief,  already 
had  we  recovered  the  arrow-like  flight  of  the  illimitable 
central  aisle,  when,  coming  up  this  aisle  to  meet  us,  we 
beheld  a  female  infant  that  rode  in  a  carriage  as  frail  as 
flowers.  The  mists  which  went  before  hid  the  fawns  that 
drew  her,  but  could  not  hide  the  shells  and  tropic  flowers 
with  which  she  played,  —  but  could  not  hide  the  lovely 
smiles,  by  which  she  uttered  her  trust  in  the  mighty  cathe- 
dral, and  in  the  cherubim  that  looked  down  upon  her  from 
the  topmost  shafts  of  its  pillars.  Face  to  face  she  was 
meeting  us ;  face  to  face  she  rode,  as  if  danger  there 
were  none.     '  Oh,  baby ! '  I  exclaimed,  '  shalt  thou  be  the 


AND    HIS   WORKS.  45 

ransom  for  Waterloo  ?  Must  we,  that  carry  tidings  of 
great  joy  to  every  people,  be  messengers  of  ruin  to  thee  ?'  " 
By  sudden  and  magnificent  changes  in  the  dream  pageantry 
the  baby  is  delivered ;  and  perhaps  the  boldest  yet  finest 
effort  of  imagination  in  the  whole  occurs  soon  after  these 
sentences.  But  we  can  quote  no  more,  and,  save  quotation, 
we  have  no  resource  in  such  a  case.  We  have  given  the 
outline  of  only  one  of  the  visions.  We  find,  in  the  others, 
the  original  elements  variously  transformed ;  we  have  the 
coach  changed  into  a  stately  vessel,  the  avenue  into  tower- 
ing cathedral  aisles  grouped  from  the  mists  of  the  sea,  the 
lady  into  one  who  sits  in  a  fairy  pinnace  on  the  ocean.  The 
dangers  and  the  splendors  are  always  such  as  are  accordant 
with  the  situation. 

But  we  pause ;  we  think  we  have  already  vindicated 
all  our  assertions.  And  now  will  our  readers  be  prepared 
to  estimate  the  difficulty  which  attends  a  decision  of  the 
question,  whether,  on  the  whole,  it  is  to  be  regretted  that 
De  Quincey  fell  under  the  influence  of  opium  ?  Our  own 
feeling  we  have  already  expressed.  We  think  De  Quincey 
was  naturally  fitted  to  take  his  station  among  the  great 
systematic  thinkers  of  the  olden  time,  and  something 
unique  in  literature  might  have  been  achieved  by  the 
combined  operation  of  such  a  piercing  intellect  and  so 
imperial  an  imagination  on  the  pedestal  of  the  nineteenth 
century.  When  his  arms,  in  the  strength  of  manhood, 
and  with  all  their  gigantic  powers  untrammeled,  might 
have  been  piling  mountain  upon  mountain,  he  had  still  to 
wrestle  in  mortal  agony  with  a  serpent  of  deadlier  venom 
and  more  overwhelming  power  than  ever  coiled  around 
an  ancient  hero.  No  man  has  more  than  a  certain  force 
allotted  him  by  nature ;  it  may  be  greater  or  less,  but  it 
is  measured ;  and  it  cannot  be  expended  twice.     Consider 


46  THOMAS   DE   QUINCEY 

the  intellectual  might  necessary  to  vanquish  opium  in  the 
three  fearful  assaults  of  which  De  Quincey  informs  us,  and 
then  decide  concerning  the  powers  of  him  whose  works, 
wondrous  as  they  are,  were  all  accomplished  in  the  breath- 
ing spaces  between  paroxysms  of  convulsive  warfare.  It 
may,  of  course,  be  alleged,  that  without  the  opium  we 
never  should  have  had  those  writings  which  are  most 
closely  associated  with  the  name  of  De  Quincey.  But  it 
is  our  decided  opinion  that  the  dreams  produced  by  opium 
were  but  the  occasion  of  the  visions  wherewith  the  opium 
eater  has  amazed  the  world.  These  are  strictly  works  of 
imagination,  and  may  be  tried  by  the  same  tests  as  the 
dreams  of  Richter  and  Novalis.  We  concede  that  much 
of  their  terrific  coloring  is  traceable  to  opium ;  but  De 
Quincey's  imagination,  we  are  assured,  would  have  worked 
under  any  conditions. 

We  have  done  little  more  than  glance  at  the  extraor- 
dinary man  and  the  extraordinary  works  of  which  we  have 
been  treating.  We  have  left  ourselves  no  space  to  speak 
of  his  taste,  which  yet  so  well  deserves  notice.  We  merely 
remind  our  readers  of  his  account  of  the  little  heroine 
of  Easedale  and  her  infant  brothers  and  sisters,  and  bid 
them  think  of  the  perfect  simplicity  of  the  narrative,  of 
the  absence  of  all  rhetoric,  of  the  tender  delicacy  of  the 
feeling.  We  merely  ask  them  to  consider  the  grace  and 
ease,  the  softened  glow  without  glitter,  the  chastely  ar- 
ranged flower  wreaths  from  which  every  gaudy  weed  is 
instinctively  bidden  away,  in  one  word,  the  peace  and 
moderation,  which  everywhere  meet  us  in  the  writings  of 
De  Quincey.  Nor  can  we  speak  of  him  further  as  a 
humorist,  although  this  is  perhaps  his  most  important 
and  prevailing  aspect.  Often  his  humor  is  merely  an 
exquisite  flavor  of  drollery,  a  half  hidden  smile,  a  something 


AND   HI  S    WORKS.  47 

which  fills  you  with  a  certain  quiet  comfort,  but  does  not 
make  you  laugh  outright;  sometimes  it  is  broad  farce, 
when  you  do  laugh,  and  cannot  but  laugh,  were  it  only 
at  the  imperturbable  gravity  of  the  comic  actor;  some- 
times it  is  downright  horse  play,  as  when  old  "  Toad  in  the 
hole  "  is  kicked  out,  by  universal  consent  of  the  company 
and  of  readers,  "  despite  his  silvery  hairs  and  his  angelic 
smile."  Sometimes,  although  very  rarely,  De  Quincey's 
humor  intrudes  into  places  where  its  presence  is  utterly 
indefensible.  We  shall  instance  one;  by  far  the  most 
striking.  We  think  it  were  difficult  to  match  in  our  late 
literature,  if  indeed  in  our  whole  literature,  the  pathetic 
effect  realized  in  his  paper  on  the  Maid  of  Orleans.  De 
Quincey  has  there  enabled  us  to  define,  clearly  and  con- 
clusively, the  function  which  such  as  she  have,  even  in 
their  death,  performed  for  mankind.  We  have  so  much  to 
harden  us  in  this  world,  so  stern  is  the  struggle  of  exist- 
ence, so  sadly  do  the  morning  dew  drops  and  the  early 
flowers  vanish  or  wither  in  life's  hot  day,  that  you  actually 
confer  a  precious  boon  and  benefit  on  a  man,  when  you 
make  him  shed  a  noble  tear.  No  man  ever  wept  with 
Cordelia  by  the  bed  of  her  stricken  father,  no  man  ever 
saddened  at  the  tale  of  Margaret's  sorrows  in  the  "  Excur- 
sion," no  man  ever  hung  over  the  dying  bed  of  a  true 
friend,  without  being  a  better  and  a  gentler  man.  And 
who  does  not  see  that,  besides  all  else  of  instruction  and 
of  consolation  which  arises  from  the  pyres  of  the  martyrs 
of  Christianity,  besides  the  deathless  lessons  of  courage, 
of  devotion,  of  purest  holiness,  which  they  convey,  there 
is  this  also  in  the  legacy  of  the  fathers  to  the  human  race, 
that,  by  sympathizing  sorrow  over  their  woes,  each  gen- 
eration is  elevated,  and  humanized,  and  ennobled.  This 
great  lesson  De  Quincey  has  embodied,  with  an  almost 


48  THOMAS   DE   QUINCEY 

unexampled  felicity,  in  his  paper  on  Joan  of  Arc.  But 
what  must  we  say  to  the  fact  that  even  here  humor  is 
permitted  to  intrude,  that  even  here  there  is  the  sacri- 
legious play  of  wit  and  fun  ?  We  must  not  approach  that 
awful  and  beautiful  spectacle,  round  which  angels  were 
weeping,  through  a  porch  painted  with  satyrs  and  baccha- 
nals ;  no  "  insulting  light "  must  "  glimmer  on  our  tears ; " 
we  must  approach  through  an  avenue  of  cypress,  under 
whose  shade  we  may  weep  alone.  We  can  pardon  the 
gambolings  of  an  irrepressible  humor  when  the  matter 
is  argumentative,  but  the  heavens  must  be  hung  with 
sackcloth  around  the  pyre  of  Joan  of  Arc. 

The  time  has  probably  not  yet  arrived  to  attempt  a 
final  portraiture  of  De  Quincey,  to  estimate  the  value  of 
his  works,  and  to  ascertain  their  rightful  place  among 
English  classics.  The  public  mind  has  yet,  in  great  meas- 
ure, to  be  introduced  to  these  works,  and  a  few  introduc- 
tory remarks,  a  few  almost  colloquial  hints,  are  all  we 
have  here  offered.  It  will,  indeed,  whensoever  attempted, 
be  a  task  of  no  common  difficulty  to  portray,  in  its  com- 
plete and  united  proportions,  the  extraordinary  mind  of 
which  these  multiform  and  many-tinted  writings  are  the 
production  and  manifestation.  We  must  not  attempt  it 
here.  To  speak  of  separate  characteristics  is,  indeed, 
easy,  whether  they  be  those  of  the  author  or  his  composi- 
tions. One  may  mark  the  indications  of  a  gigantic  recep- 
tive faculty,  seizing,  hundred-handed,  and  gathering  into 
one  storehouse,  from  all  lands  and  centuries,  what  intel- 
lectual treasures  it  chooses  to  make  its  own;  proof  may 
be  adduced  of  that  power  of  original  thought,  which 
penetrates  into  untrodden  regions,  but  dimly  pointed 
towards  before,  and  of  that  creative,  imaginative  glance 
which  gives  form  and    life  to  what  therefore  was    airy 


AND   HIS   WORKS.  49 

nothing;  special  attention  may  be  called  to  a  sympathy- 
resembling  a  musical  instrument  of  unmeasured  range, 
which  can  distil  a  melody  more  tender  than  the  tear  of 
childhood,  but  has  yet  chords  to  voice  the  roar  of  ocean 
or  the  thunders  of  war;  and  you  may  enlarge  indefinitely 
on  the  style,  on  that  astonishing  mastery  over  the  English 
language,  by  which,  in  swiftly  changing  variation,  you  are 
startled,  animated,  melted,  terrified,  amused,  and  which 
at  times  attains  a  softness,  a  beauty,  an  aerial  glow,  to  be 
claimed  as  peculiarly  De  Quincey's,  and  which  compel  the 
describer,  sensible  of  his  weakness,  to  borrow  the  colors 
of  the  master  himself,  and  liken  them  to  the  timid  trem- 
blings of  the  dawn,  or  the  blending  of  moon-light,  dawn- 
light,  dream-light.  But  these  are  at  best  scattered  traits, 
—  individual  instances ;  it  is  their  union  which  is  the 
wonder  and  the  peculiarity,  and  of  this  union  we  present 
no  theory  at  present. 

FIRST   SERIES.  5 


II. 

TENNYSON  AND  HIS  TEACHERS. 

Mek  seem  by  universal  consent  to  have  associated  the 
genius  of  Scott  with  something  of  magic  and  enchantment ; 
not  enchantment  of  a  stern  or  gloomy  character,  but  of  a 
gay,  glittering,  Arabian  sort.  A  peculiar  and  natural 
fitness  appears  to  have  been  recognized  in  that  household 
phrase,  The  "Wizard  of  Waverley.  And  I  cannot  but 
believe  that  the  general  sense  has  in  this  instance  been 
specially  felicitous.  How  can  we  better  represent  Scott 
in  our  imagination,  than  as  a  kindly  magician,  surrounded 
by  groups  of  eager  and  delighted  children,  before  whose 
eyes  he  evokes  group  after  group,  in  endless  procession, 
in  that  broad,  clear,  wondrous  mirror  of  his;  himself 
smiling  the  while,  as  he  half  reclines  on  his  well-padded 
seat,  less  in  complacency  at  the  power  of  his  enchantments, 
than  in  pleasure,  mingled  with  mild  surprise,  at  the  ecsta- 
cies  of  wonder  and  joy  into  which,  by  every  waving  of 
his  wand,  he  throws  the  children  around  him?  Swiftly, 
gracefully,  'beautifully,  that  long  procession  moves,  the 
scene  ever  changing  into  new  forms  of  loveliness,  while 
an  airy  music,  now  rapid  and  shrill  as  the  sound  of  clang- 
ing arms,,  now  faintly,  slowly  sinking  into  mournful 
cadence,  now  swelling  and  glowing  into  the  richer  har- 
mony of  love,   is  breathed   around.     The   scene   is  now 


TENNYSON  AND  HIS  TEACHERS.       51 

the  courtly  hall,  and  jewelled  figures  move  stately  through 
the  dance.  These  sweep  past  and  there  float  into  the 
mirror's  magic  deeps  the  grand  forms  of  a  mountain  land ; 
the  cataract  leaping  to  music  from  the  precipice,  river 
hastening  to  meet  river  with  bridal  kiss,  and  the  lake, 
bearing  on  its  bosom  bright  island  gems,  lying  placid 
beneath  the  crag.  Presently,  at  a  sudden  turn  of  the 
mountain  path,  there  emerges  the  knight  of  chivalry, 
pride  and  dauntlessness  on  his  brow,  a  smile  of  kingly 
gentleness  on  his  lip.  Startled  by  the  sound  of  his  hunts- 
man's horn,  the  Lady  of  the  Lake,  fair  as  a  vision, 
glides  in  her  skiff,  from  the  glassy  deep,  into  some  silvery 
cove.  The  scene  swims  gradually  away,  and  thick  clouds, 
rolling  slow  before  the  blast,  gather  on  the  moorland, 
to  hang  their  dim  curtains  round  opposing  armies.  The 
battle  commences.  The  pomp  and  circumstance  of  feudal 
war,  the  plumes,  the  pennons,  the  mail-clad  steeds,  are 
before  us,  every  form  lifted  into  full,  distinct  light,  and 
the  war  cries  ringing  round.  Thus  we  truly  represent 
to  ourselves  the  poetry  of  Scott :  where  aU_jsclejir,_viyid, 
instinct  with  life  and  motion ;  where  there  floats  not  one 
cloud  of  dishonest  obscurity,  not  one  film  of  affected 
sensibility;  where  a  thousand  tints  of  loveliness  glance 
and  gleam  before  our  eyes,  like  dew  drops  in  clear  dawn, 
or  sunbeams  on  wavering  foliage ;  (where  the  nice  definition 
of  form,  the  elaborate  refinement  and  richness  of  color, 
the  studied  and  perfect  symmetry,  pertaining  to  the  ideal 
of  Greece  and  of  Goethe, ;  are  indeed  wanting,)  but  where 
sympathy  and  love,  rejoicing  in  dewy  copse  and  sparkling 
flower,  in  golden  corn  and  smiling  meadow,  in  bounding 
stream  and  purple  mountain,  hav^J^come  the  unconscious 
ministers  of  a  high  artistic  perfection,  but  shed  over  all 
a  vivacity,  an  airy  sprightliness,  a  smiling  grace,  such  as 


52  TENNYSON    AND   HIS    TEACHERS. 

were  perhaps  never  won  by  the  more  conscious  efforts  of 
Art. 

Remove  from  the  poetry  of  Scott  the  vail  of  remoteness 
and  enchantment ;  for  that  softly  glittering  morning  light, 
substitute  a  fierce  red  glare ;  let  the  spirit  of  the  modern 
time  be  breathed  in  its  utmost  intensity  over  every  scene 
and  into  every  character ;  let  skilful  narrative  give  place  to 
grand  lyric  bursts,  and  sympathetic  memory,  exhaustless 
in  its  stores,  to  the  poetic  imagination  in  its  highest  might : 
and  for  the  poetry  of  Scott  you  have  the  poetry  of  Byron. 
Passionate,  vivid,  excitable,  sensitive,  Byron  was  the  ideal 
embodiment  of  lyric  poetryy  His  personality  was  too 
intense  to  permit  him  to  separate  himself  from  his  poetic 
characters,  so  as  to  represent  them  in  the  whole  breadth  and 
symmetry  of  their  relations,  in  the  fashion  of  a  Shakspeare 
or  a  Scott.  He  has  himself  incidentally  informed  us  that 
he  regarded  poetry  from  the  lyrical  point  of  view.  "  No 
poetry,"  he  says,  in  a  letter  to  Murray,  "  is  generally  good, 
—  only  by  fits  and  starts,  —  and  you  are  lucky  to  get  a 
sparkle  here  and  there."  Like  the  lyric  poet,  he  concen- 
trated his  powers  upon  particular  passages ;  like  the  lyric 
poet,  his  own  emotion  colored  all  he  saw;  and,  like  the 
lyric  poet,  his  dearest  theme  was  passion.  When  he 
describes  nature,  he  always,  if  his  genius  is  in  its  strength, 
bathes  it  in  a  transforming  light,  robes  it  in  a  grandeur 
not  its  own.  Herein  it  is  that  his  essential  superiority 
to  Scott,  in  regard  of  strict  poetic  power,  is  demonstrated. 
Scott  is  opulent  in  detail,  and  has  nature's  sweet  change- 
fulness,  freshness,  and  variety.  But  in  all  the  poetry  of 
Scott,  there  is  no  such  description  as  Byron's  thunder-storm 
in  the  Alps.  Besides  that  accurate  realism,  that  broad, 
natural  truth,  which  it  might  well  have  had  from  Scott, 
that  description  burns  with  a  poetic  personification  such 


TENNYSON  AND  HIS  TEACHERS.       53 

as  Scott  could  never  have  imparted.  The  live  thunder 
leaps  from  crag  to  crag.  The  mountains  have  the  hearts 
of  men,  and  exult  to  each  other  in  the  commotion  they 
produce.  Scott  describes  a  battle.  We  know  precisely 
how  the  divisions  were  commanded,  and  when  and  where 
they  charged.  But  where,  in  all  the  pages  of  Scott,  do 
we  find  a  line  like  this,  — 

"  Red  Battle  stamped  his  foot,  and  nations  felt  the  shock?" 

And  if  the  eye  of  Byron  rolled  in  that  fine  lyric  frenzy 
which  spreads  over  nature  the  hues  of  human  emotion  and 
thought,  no  less  was  he  a  lyrist,  and  no  less  was  he  power- 
ful in  the  delineation  of  passion.  Since  the  days  of  Shak- 
speare,  the  burning  heart  of  passion  had  not  been  so  laid 
bare.  The  Corsairs,  the  Laras,  the  Gulnares,  the  Medoras 
of  Byron,  perfectly  absurd  as  actual  personages,  are  ad- 
mirable mouthpieces  of  lyric  emotion,  of  uncontrollable 
passion.  Totally  inadequate  to  body  forth  the  spirit  and 
tenor  of  a  life,  they  represent  with  great  effect  the  feelings 
of  individual  exceptional  periods.  There  are  such  periods 
in  life ;  volcanic  epochs,  brief  but  terrible,  when  sky  and 
earth  are  mingled  in  wild  fire-lit  commotion,  and  the 
peaceful  vineyards,  ripening  in  the  calm  light  of  long 
summer  days,  as  yet  are  not.  The  emotions  of  such 
times,  in  their  burning  intensity,  in  their  ethereal  tender- 
ness, in  the  rapture  of  their  joy  and  the  agony  of  their 
sorrow,  are  depicted  by  Byron  with  surpassing  power. 
It  is  when  we  consider  the  pure  might  of  imagination 
exhibited  in  the  individual  passages,  of  which,  with  a 
cement  of  versified  prose,  the  larger  poems  of  Byron 
have  been  truly  declared  by  Macaulay  to  consist,  —  and 
the  marvellous  truth  and  power  with  which  human  passion 
is  everywhere  depicted, — that  we  feel  constrained  to  rank 
5* 


54  TENNYSON   AND    HIS    TEACHERS. 

Byron  among  the  master  intellects  of  mankind,  and  almost 
to  agree  with  Goethe  that  his  genius  was  incommensurable. 
But  not  even  in  considering  the  excellence  and  enduring 
popularity  of  literary  effort,  is  it  permissible,  if  it  is  possi- 
ble, to  abstract  any  part  of  the  whole  life  and  character. 
The  poetry  of  Byron  is  inseparably  connected  with  his  life 
and  character.  Through  the  latter  there  was  a  fatal  flaw ; 
and  the  former  is  pervaded  by  a  moral  taint,  which,  as  the 
eye  of  humanity  becomes  purer  and  purer  in  the  lapse  of 
ages,  will  more  and  more  endanger  its  literary  immortality. 
The  spectacle  presented  by  Byron,  in  his  life  and  death,  is 
one  of  which  the  mysterious  sadness  may  be  called  infinite. 
By  all  we  can  reverentially  assume  as  to  the  intentions  of 
the  Almighty,  and  by  all  the  analogy  of  nature  and  history, 
greatness  of  intellect  ought  to  be  one  of  the  forces  to  keep 
the  soul  stable,  to  preserve  a  calmness  and  completeness  in 
the  life.  So  it  seems  radically  to  have  been  with  the  Platos 
and  Ciceros,  the  Dantes  and  Luthers,  the  Miltons  and 
Leibnitzes,  the  Pascals  and  Berkeleys  of  history.  Diverse 
as  the  genius  of  such  might  be,  its  power  tended  to  steady 
them,  not  to  set  them  rocking  like  pillars  shaken  of  earth- 
quake. Never  for  a  moment  have  such  faltered  in  their 
deliberate  assent  and  submission  to  the  infinite  Tightness, 
beauty,  and  power  of  moral  law.  "Not  even  in  Swift's  case 
do  we  find  a  strict  parallel  to  the  phenomenon,  so  tragically 
common  in  these  days,  of  passion  conquering  genius,  and 
quenching  the  heaven-soaring  flame  in  its  own  foul  ashes. 
Mirabeau,  Burns,  and  Byron,  to  go  no  further,  seem  to  me 
to  present  a  spectacle  new  under  the  sun.  These  all  had 
iron  constitutions.  Physically  speaking,  they  were  good 
for  the  whole  of  the  threescore  years  and  ten.  Yet  all 
three  were  laid  in  the  dust  in  the  prime  of  their  years ; 
and  whatever  the  palliations  we  may  admit,  or  the  qualifi- 


TENNYSON   AND    HIS   TEACHERS.  55 

cations  we  may  make,  it  remains  a  simple  fact  that  they 
were,  in  too  literal  a  sense,  their  own  murderers.  No 
cowardly  feebleness,  no  false  humility,  no  "  haunting  admi- 
ration of  the  grandeur  of  disordered  power,"  no  accursed 
"hero-worship,"  ought  to  be  permitted  to  stifle  in  us  the 
still  small  voice  which  proclaims  the  awful  magnitude  of 
this  sin.  God  and  nature  affirm  the  declaration  of  that 
still  small  voice ;  affirm  it  in  the  fevered  frame,  the  burn- 
ing brow,  the  early  grave :  and  we  are  weak,  blind,  or 
rebellious,  if  we  do  not  acknowledge  the  fact  and  learn 
the  lesson. 

An  allusion  to  the  moral  taint  which  pervades  the  poetry 
of  Byron  brings  us  naturally  to  the  poetry  of  Words- 
worth ;  which  forms  the  third  great  school  of  this  opulent 
period.  It  is  my  profound  conviction  that  it  was  rather 
to  the  moral  elevation  of  his  poetry,  than  to  his  intel- 
lectual or  aesthetic  capacities,  that  Wordsworth  owed  the 
fame  and  influence  he  acquired.  As  you  yielded  yourself^ 
to  his  guidance,  you  passed  into  a  region  removed  alike 
from  that  in  which  the  genius  of  Scott,  and  that  in  which 
the  genius  of  Byron,  loved  to  expatiate.  You  left  behind 
that  joyous  land  of  faery,  ringing  with  the  voice  of  streams 
and  birds,  bright  with  flower  and  foam,  in  which  you 
wandered  with  the  border  minstrel.  You  passed  beyond 
the  troubled  atmosphere  where  the  cloudy  grandeurs  of 
the  Byronic  poetry  were  unfolded.  You  stood  on  the 
mountain's  brow.  There  at  last  was  the  still,  unfathom- 
able azure,  seeming  to  look,  with  calm,  eternal  smile,  on 
the  wild  glittering,  far  below,  of  the  lightnings  of  passiony 
The  mind  of  man,  the  crowning  wonder  of  nature,  is  in  no 
way  more  surprising  than  in  its  power  of  sympathy  and 
response.  It  is  easy  to  cast  a  spell  over  it.  Any  sort  of 
syren  chiming  allures  and  subdues  it.     But  its  nobler  sym- 


56  TENNYSON   AND   HIS   TEACHERS. 

pathies,  inextinguishable  though  deeply  slumbering,  have 
only  to  be  awakened  by  the  tones  of  a  holier  melody,  when 
it  arises,  like  a  child  that  has  fallen  asleep  in  an  unknown 
land,  and  looks  round,  in  wistful  surprise,  listening  for 
that  strain  which  sounded  so  strangely  of  home.  So  it 
was  with  the  generation  that  had  thrilled  to  the  notes  of 
Scott  and  Byron.  The  unchanging  verities  of  faith  in 
God  and  love  to  man,  proclaimed  in  their  simple  majesty, 
asserted  once  more  the  supremacy  of  their  greatness.  The 
still,  genial  light,  diffused  in  mild  and  equable  radiance 
through  the  atmosphere,  and  gradually  whitening  the  fields 
into  harvest,  was  recognized  as  more  nobly  beautiful  than 
the  wild  gleaming  of  volcanic  fires.  As  men  stood  with 
Wordsworth  on  that  mountain's  brow,  they  seemed  to 
feel  around  them  the  waving  of  angels'  wings,  and  they 
looked  upon  his  face  as  if  it  were  the  face  of  an  angel. 

And  what  was  it  that  Wordsworth  told  his  listeners? 
He  told  them  the  world-old  truth,  that  earth's  greatest  joy 
and  beauty  are  centred  in  home ;  and  he  turned  their  eyes 
once  more  to  that  future  of  immortality,  towards  which  the 
inarticulate  yearning  of  the  human  spirit  is  stronger  even 
than  the  yearning  of  passion.  Over  the  natural  world,  in 
all  the  range  and  richness  of  its  phenomena,  he  shed  a  sym- 
pathy, more  loving,  tender,  thoughtful,  saintly,  than  had 
ever  been  cast  over  it  by  any  poet.  He  showed  the 
heaven-light  clothing  the  flowers  of  earth.  With  the  love 
of  a  poet,  and  the  reverence  of  a  high  priest,  he  looked 
upon  the  clouds  until  they  smiled  down  on  him  unutter- 
able love,  and  upon  the  little  flowers  until  they  woke  in 
him  thoughts  too  deep  for  tears.  When  he  looked  upon 
humanity  it  was  rather  to  pity  than  to  admire  the  beating 
of  its  mighty  heart ;  and  the  materialism  of  his  age  shrunk 
abashed  from  the  majesty  of  his  disdain. 


TENNYSON  AND  HIS  TEACHERS.       57 

If  this  is  true,  it  is  not  surprising,  nor  in  any  way  to  be 
regretted,  that  Wordsworth  attained  a  lofty  eminence  of 
fame,  and  that  he  exercised  an  influence  of  vast  potency 
over  his  age.  But  it  would  be  highly  absurd  to  permit 
it  to  blind  us  to  the  obvious,  radical,  and  demonstrable 
defects  of  Wordsworth's  poetry,  pis  mind  was  irremedi- 
ably wanting  in  all  those  qualities  which  give  keenness 
and  intensity  to  emotion,  rapidity  and  practical  force  to 
thought,  terseness  and  brilliancy  to  style.  The  absence 
from  his  mental  composition  of  any  sense  of  wit  or  humor 
was,  in  its  completeness,  scarcely  human.  If  one  may  be 
pardoned  the  expression,  his  soul  wanted  crystalizingy  Had 
you  cleared  his  eye  by  one  flash  of  that  critical  penetration 
which  dwelt  in  the  eye  of  Pope,  had  you  edged  his  glance 
with  one  ray  of  that  quick,  piercing,  caustic  fire  which 
belonged  to  Byron,  how  you  would  have  enriched  him! 
The  value  of  wit,  and  of  the  critical  faculty,  is  perhaps  not 
so  great  to  the  world  at  large,  as  to  their  own  possessor. 
They  warn  him,  by  silent,  instinctive  monitions,  from  the 
ridiculous,  the  /  childish,  the  inane.  Such  things  as  The 
Seven  Sisters  and  Ellen  Irwin  are  purely,  perfectly,  un- 
approachably bad.  Parody  is  cheated  by  anticipation. 
We  involuntarily  exclaim,  Every  poet  his  own  satirist !  If 
a  boy  of  nine  had  written  Ellen  Jrwi?i,  and  died,  it  would 
hardly  have  been  pardonable  in  his  mother  to  publish  it. 
No  theory  is  here  of  any  avail;  no  arguing  can  make 
feebleness  impressive,  or  render  art  synonymous  with  com- 
monplace. But  for  original  defect  of  mind,  no  theory 
could  have  blinded  Wordsworth  himself  to  the  absurdity 
of  such  rigmarole.  But  not  only  was  the  want  of  wit,, 
humor,  and  the  critical  faculty  deplorably  manifest  in 
Wordsworth.  An  honest  and  searching  criticism  must 
explicitly  allow  that  he  possessed  neither  the  penetrative 


58  TENNYSON   AND   HIS   TEACHERS. 

and  grasping  imagination  which  seizes  passion,  nor  the 
kindling,  creative  imagination,  which  gives  life  and  person- 
ification. Of  this  last  power,  which  I  believe  to  be  the 
reflection  in  man,  as  the  image  of  God,  of  the  Divine 
creative  energy,  and  to  which  can  therefore,  with  no  lack 
of  reverence,  be  applied  the  term  which,  immediately, 
could  be  applied  to  God  alone,  there  is  scarcely  an  in- 
stance, if  there  is  one,  in  the  whole  range  of  Wordsworth's 
poetry. 

Scott,  Byron,  and  Wordsworth  will  mainly  represent  to 
posterity  the  great  schools  of  British  poetry  which  shed 
lustre  over  the  earlier  part  of  the  nineteenth  century.  But 
these  were  not  alone,  nor  is  it  certain  that  they  produced 
the  finest  poetical  pieces  of  the  timee  It  would  not  be 
easy  to  make  even  the  slightest  descriptive  reference  to 
each  of  the  men  whose  poetical  genius,  in  its  full  vigor  at 
that  period,  made  their  country  and  their  age  illustrious, 
A  separate  critique  might  well  be  devoted  to  the  incom- 
parable battle  songs  of  Campbell,  or  to  the  stern,  truthful, 
melodious  wailings  of  Crabbe,  or  to  the  ornate  .erudition 
of  Southey,  or  to  the  tuneful  tenderness  and  brilliancy  of 
Moore,  or  to  the  delicate,  sportive,  many-tinted  fancies 
of  Hogg,  or  even  to  the  occasional  vigor  and  intermittent 
glow  of  Wilson.     Such,  however,  is  here  impossible. 

But  there  are  three  poets  to  whom  special  allusion  must 
be  made,  if  not  for  their  transcendant  merits,  at  least  for 
their  influence  on  the  poetry  which  is  at  present  our 
particular  object.  I  mean  Coleridge,  Keats,  and  Shelley. 
Although  the  collected  poetry  of  Coleridge  does  not  make 
a  large  volume,  yet  it  may  be  asserted  that  in  few  if  any 
more  voluminous  collections  would  a  systematic  critic  find 
more  instances  of  the  exercise  of  genuine  poetical  genius, 
wherewith  to  illustrate  his  canons.     In  the  Odes  of  Colo- 


TENNYSON   AND   HIS    TEACHERS.  59 

ridge,  in  his  Religious  Musings,  and  scattered  through 
other  pieces,  are  to  be  found  personifications,  which  have 
never  been  surpassed,  and  which  it  defies  conception  to 
improve.  If  I  were  asked  what  to  me  individually  appears 
the  most  sublime  piece  of  poetical  description  with  which  I 
ever  met,  in  any  writer,  ancient  or  modern,  British  or 
foreign,  I  should  point  to  these  lines  in  The  Rime  of  the 
Ancient  Mariner :  — 

"  Still  as  a  slave  before  his  lord, 
The  ocean  hath  no  blast ; 
His  great  bright  eye  most  silently 
Up  to  the  moon  is  cast.1* 

No  purely  realistic  description  could  be  conceived,  com- 
parable, in  power  and  sublimity,  to  this.  The  silent,  lorn, 
appealing  look  of  the  eye,  is  perhaps  the  most  pathetic  of 
all  human  expressions.  In  the  mere  transference  of  the 
wearied,  despairing  gaze  of  human  agony  to  the  ocean, 
there  is  an  idea  conveyed  of  solitude,  dreariness,  and  woe, 
which  concentrates  the  descriptions  of  a  thousand  calms. 
Whole  poems  are  gathered  up  in  this  marvellous  effort  of 
the  pure  imagination.  From  the  Religious  Musings  I 
might  quote  several  instances  of  personification  worthy  of 
being  compared  with  the  above ;  but  it  is  needless.  It  is 
sufficient  to  add  that  in  rich  and  delicate  melodiousness,  in 
deep  "  inwoven  harmony,"  in  aerial  glow  of  coloring,  there 
are  passages  in  the  poetry  of  Coleridge  which  defy  descrip- 
tion, and  turn  all  praise  to  shame.  There  are  touches  in 
Christabel  and  Genevieve  of  a  pure  loveliness,  dewy  and 
roseate  as  the  dawn,  spirit-like,  ethereal,  indescribable. 

Mr.  Carlyle  has  in  one  of  his  essays  incidentally  charac- 
terized the  genius  of  Keats  as  mere  sensibility  and  random 
tunefulness  of  nature.     The  passage  will  remain  perhaps 


60  TENNYSON   AND   HIS    TEACHERS. 

the  most  remarkable  illustration  in  literature  of  the  danger, 
even  in  the  case  of  writers  of  great  power  and  general 
caution,  that  lies  in  incidental  expression  of  opinion  on 
important  points.  Keats  sunk  into  his  grave  ere  he  had 
attained  the  fulness  of  his  years,  pierced  by  the  arrows  of 
cruel  mediocrity  and  withered  by  disease.  Yet  there  is  in 
his  case  no  necessity  to  demand  an  arrest  of  judgment,  on 
the  plea  that  his  genius  was  undeveloped.  Midymion, 
indeed,  was  a  youthful  effort,  and  with  all  its  delicate 
luxuriance  of  fancy,  is  not  unmarked  by  boyish  diffuseness, 
or  even,  perhaps,  by  boyish  affectation.  But  (The  Eve  of 
St.  Agnes  is  no  youthful  effort :  it  (may  challenge  com- 
parison with  anything  of  its  kind  ever  written.  There  is 
a  mellow  yet  transparent  glow  in  its  coloring,  a  finish  and 
melody  in  its  versification,  a  perfection  of  form  and  propor- 
tion in  its  whole  execution,  which  belong  exclusively  to 
consummate  skiiy  And  what  shall  we  say  of  Hyperion  t 
Is  that  a  youthful  effort  ?  Is  that  characterized  only  by 
sensibility  and  random  tunefulness?  Even  in  its  present 
state  it  is  one  of  the  grandest  things  ever  accomplished  by 
the  human  intellect ;  and  I  hold  it  to  be  demonstrable  that, 
if  it  had  been  finished  as  it  was  commenced,  it  would  have 
found  its  place  among  the  solitary  masterpieces  of  the 
world,  the  greatest  philosophical  poem  that  exists.  It  is 
well  that  the  central  idea  of  the  poem  is  so  clearly  indicated 
in  the  fragment  we  have,  and  that  the  general  plan  of  the 
poetic  treatment  of  this  idea  contemplated  by  the  author  is 
so  distinctly  suggested,  that  criticism  can  view  the  poem 
as  it  must  have  presented  itself  to  the  mind  of  the  poet. 
The  central  idea  is  expressed  in  these  words :  — 

"  'T  is  the  eternal  law, 
That  first  in  beauty  shall  be  first  in  might;" 


TENNYSON  AND  HIS  TEACHERS.       61 

and  the  plan  of  Keats  manifestly  was,  to  exhibit  the  illus- 
tration of  this  idea  afforded  by  the  mythology  of  Greece. 
He  intended  to  portray  the  procession  of  beauty,  from 
mythology  to  mythology,  and  might  have  brought  his 
whole  poem  to  a  glorious  close  with  the  transfiguration 
of  all  material  loveliness  in  the  spiritual  beauty  of  Christi- 
anity. It  is  perhaps  impossible  to  exaggerate  the  excel- 
lence of  this  idea  or  of  this  plan,  whether  philosophic 
depth  or  poetic  capability  be  the  ground  of  estimate. 
Of  all  the  nations  who  have  passed  along  the  stage  of 
time,  the  ancient  Greeks  are  most  closely  associated  with 
all  that  relates  to  beauty.  In  the  practical  working  of 
the  human  mind,  there  never  yet  was  bodied  forth  any 
manifestation  of  the  Beautiful,  to  be  for  a  moment  com- 
pared, in  the  chasteness  yet  grandeur  of  its  perfection, 
with  the  mythology  of  Greece.  So  intensely  perceptive 
of  the  Beautiful  were  the  Hellenic  race,  that  it  may  be 
considered  a  philosophic  and  historical  certainty,  that  it 
was  the  fact  of  their  more  chastened  and  delicate  love- 
liness which  secured  to  the  Olympians,  in  preference  to 
the  Titans,  the  homage  of  the  Greek  mind.  Keats  had 
therefore  chosen  the  very  best  means  afforded  him  by 
human  history,  for  setting  forth  the  whole  doctrine  of 
the  Beautiful  in  its  own  garb  of  beauty.  This  choice  alone 
demonstrates  the  master  mind.  But  the  execution  was, 
so  far  as  it  went,  if  possible,  still  more  amazing.  The 
colossal  vigor  of  Michael  Angelo,  and  the  ethereal  delicacy 
and  sense  of  beauty  of  Raphael,  unite  in  the  wondrous 
delineations  of  Hyperion. 

u  Look  up,  and  tell  me  if  this  feeble  shape 
Is  Saturn's ;  tell  me,  if  thou  hear'st  the  voice 
Of  Saturn ;  tell  me,  if  this  wrinkling  brow, 

FIRST   BKRIES.  6 


62  TENNYSON    AND   HIS   TEACHERS. 

Naked  and  bare  of  its  great  diadem, 

Peers  like  the  front  of  Saturn.     Who  had  power 

To  make  me  desolate  ?     Whence  came  the  strength  ? 

How  was  it  nurtured  to  such  bursting  forth, 

While  Fate  seemed  strangled  in  my  nervous  grasp  ?  n 

Is  it  absurd  to  say  that  we  have  here  a  terseness  as  of 
Shakspeare,  and  a  majesty  as  of  Milton?  Or  to  believe 
that,  if  the  genius  of  Keats  had  fully  developed  in  the 
direction  in  which  it  was  unmistakeably  tending,  it  might 
have  won  him  an  undisputed  eminence,  above  all  the  poets 
who  have  arisen  in  Great  Britain  since  the  age  of  Milton  ? 

"  Creiis  was  one ;  his  ponderous  iron  mace 
Lay  by  him,  and  a  shatter'd  rib  of  rock 
Told  of  his  rage,  ere  he  thus  sank  and  pined. 
Iapetus  another ;  in  his  grasp, 
A  serpent's  plashy  neck ;  its  barbed  tongue 
Squeezed  from  the  gorge,  and  all  its  uncurl'd  length 
Dead ;  and  because  the  creature  could  not  spit 
Its  poison  in  the  eyes  of  conquering  Jove. 
Next  Cottus :  prone  he  lay,  chin  uppermost, 
As  though  in  pain  ;  for  still  upon  the  flint 
He  ground  severe  his  skull,  with  open  mouth 
And  eyes  at  horrid  working." 

Is  that  not  a  group  which  might  have  come  from  the 
chisel  of  Michael  Angelo  ? 

"  Have  ye  beheld  the  young  god  of  the  seas, 
My  dispossessor  ?     Have  ye  seen  his  face  ? 
Have  ye  beheld  his  chariot,  foamed  along 
By  noble  winged  creatures  he  hath  made  ? 
I  saw  him  on  the  calmed  waters  scud, 
With  such  a  glow  of  beauty  in  his  eyes, 
That  it  enforced  me  to  bid  sad  farewell 
To  all  my  empire." 


TENNYSON   AND   HIS   TEACHERS.  63 

Are  there  not  here  touches  worthy  of  the  pencil  of 
Raphael  ? 

Consider  also  the  might  of  the  poetic  imagination  which 
devised,  as  the  place  of  meeting  for  the  fallen  Titans,  a 
scene  like  this:  — 

"It  was  a  den  where  no  insulting  light 
Could  glimmer  on  their  tears;  where  their  own  groans 
They  felt,  but  heard  not,  for  the  solid  roar 
Of  thunderous  waterfalls  and  torrents  hoarse, 
Pouring  a  constant  bulk,  uncertain  where. 
Crag  jutting  forth  to  crag,  and  rocks  that  seemed 
Ever  as  if  just  rising  from  a  sleep, 
Forehead  to  forehead  held  their  monstrous  horns." 

But  does  the  thought  —  for  thought  must  at  times 
reveal  itself  in  all  poetry  —  which  is  to  be  found  in  Hype- 
rion, partake  of  juvenile  excitement  or  feeble  enthusiasm  ? 
The  poem,  to  make  use  of  an  expression  in  itself,  is 
throughout  stubborned  with  the  iron  of  most  massive 
and  manly  thought. 

"  Be  thou  therefore  in  the  van 
Of  circumstance  ;  yea,  seize  the  arrow's  barb 
Before  the  tense  string  murmur. 

*****  * 

In  thy  face 
I  see,  astonied,  that  severe  content 
Which  comes  of  thought  and  musing. 

****** 

Now  comes  the  pain  of  truth,  to  whom  't  is  pain; 
O  folly !  for  to  bear  all  naked  truths, 
And  to  envisage  circumstance,  all  calm, 
That  is  the  top  of  sovereignty." 


64  TENNYSON   AND    HIS   TEACHERS. 

These  and  similar  expressions  have  the  true  Shakspear- 
ean  compactness,  shrewdness,  practicality,  and  strength. 
They  embody  the  maxims  on  which  the  great  silent 
workers  of  human  history  have  proceeded.  They  amply 
demonstrate  that  the  genius  of  Keats  was  no  j>articular 
development,  no  mere  sentimental  rapture,  thrilling  in 
melodious  flute-notes  at  sight  of  the  Beautiful,  but  that 
his  mind  was  at  once  mighty  in  its  strength  and  sym- 
metrical in  its  proportions;  the  two  sides  of  the  intel- 
lectual arch,  reason  and  imagination,  supporting  and 
balancing  each  other.  "When  Keats  died  at  twenty-four, 
the  grave  closed  over  one  of  the  greatest  men  of  his  time. 

Keats  died  in  1820,  aged  twenty-four.  Two  years  after- 
wards, a  pale  corpse  was  washed  ashore  in  the  Bay  of 
Spezzia,  with  an  open  volume  of  the  poetry  of  Keats 
in  one  of  the  pockets  of  its  dress.  It  was  the  body  of 
Percy  Bysshe  Shelley.  His  life  had  been  six  years  longer 
than  that  of  Keats,  and  his  writings  were  far  more  exten- 
sive. But  he  died  at  thirty ;  and,  in  his  case  too,  the  rush 
and  roll  of  the  rising  waters  had  not  given  place  to  the 
reposing  strength  of  the  full  tide. 

One  is  tempted,  if  but  for  a  moment,  to  resign  himself 
to  that  enthusiasm,  which  a  first  contemplation  of  the 
genius  and  history  of  Shelley  so  mightily  awakens.  Glow- 
ing with  Platonic  enthusiasms,  confident  that  love  burned 
in  the  heart  of  humanity,  though  to  him  it  presented  only 
a  bosom  cold  as  marble,  moved  by  external  loveliness  to 
irrepressible,  weeping  ecstacy,  the  beautiful,  gentle-hearted 
boy  took  up  his  lyre,  and  shook  from  it  floods  of  wild, 
thrilling,  ethereal  melody.  If  it  were  at  all  safe  or  per- 
missible to  consider  poetry  a  thing  apart  from  the  general 
life  and  the  broad  sympathies  of  mankind ;  if  we  could 
regard  beauty  in  pure  and  remote  abstraction,  as  a  blend- 


TENNYSON  AND  HIS  TEACHERS.       65 

ing  of  prismatic  hues  on  the  central  azure,  where  eye 
never  looked  and  breath  was  never  drawn;  if  it  were 
not  the  instinctive  declaration  of  every  manly  breast, 
echoed  by  all  that  is  soundest  in  criticism,  that  what  is 
most  human  is  greatest ;  we  might  set  the  poems  of 
Shelley  above  all  the  poetical  productions  of  his  time. 
But  we  are  imperatively  forbidden  to  yield  to  the  impulse. 
Gazing,  in  finest  frenzy,  over  the  world,  Shelley  could  not 
think  that  what  he  saw  was  a  vision ;  he  could  not  see  that 
the  film  in  his  own  eye  softened  the  rugged  features  of 
men,  and  vailed  the  rocky  sternness  of  the  world  in 
enchantment :  but  we  dare  not  forget  these  facts.  The 
human  eye,  accustomed  to  look  upon  clear,  golden  corn 
fields,  and  loving  the  simple,  unvailed  beauty  of  garden 
flowers,  will  ever  behold,  in  much  of  Shelley's  poetry,  no 
more  than  the  wavering  and  unhealthful  scenery  of  dreams, 
or  than  "the  pageantry  of  mist  on  an  autumnal  stream." 
Marvellous  as  is  the  wreathing  of  that  mist,  gorgeous  as 
are  the  hues  of  its  trailing  draperies,  men  will  continue  to 
prefer  the  steady  rainbow  on  the  summer  shower,  and 
healthful  criticism  will  not  forget  that  mildew  and  pesti- 
lence may  lurk  behind  those  lighted  folds. 

The  Revolt  of  Islam,  Shelley's  most  extended  and  per- 
haps most  elaborate  work,  must  always  be  regarded  as  a 
wonderful  achievement  of  genius.  Its  human  groundwork 
is,  indeed,  supremely  weak  and  puerile.  A  nation  is  set 
free,  a  great  revolution  is  accomplished,  by  a  promising 
young  gentleman,  somewhat  mealy-mouthed,  and  a  senti- 
mental young  lady,  both  promoters  of  the  vegetarian 
movement.  But  considered  as  a  mere  allegory  or  ideal- 
ization, in  which  light,  Shelley,  no  doubt,  wished  it  to  be 
chiefly  regarded,  the  poem  loses  much  of  its  absurdity, 
and  is  seen  to  partake,  in  many  places,  of  an  epic  grandeur. 
6* 


66  TENNYSON   AND   HIS   TEACHERS. 

What  is  very  remarkable,  it  contains  some  of  the  strongest 
realistic  word-painting  in  the  language.  Its  descrip- 
tions of  the  plague  turn  the  most  terrible  passages  of 
Wilson's  poetic  drama  on  the  same  subject  into  infantile 
lisping. 

The  Cenci  may  be  taken  to  mark  an  epoch  in  the  devel- 
opment of  Shelley's  genius,  in  some  respects  corresponding 
to  that  marked  by  Hyperion  in  the  case  of  Keats.  It  is, 
indeed,  extremely  improbable,  that  a  mind,  so  superbly- 
gifted  in  one  set  of  faculties  as  Shelley's,  should  have 
proved  ultimately  and  essentially  defective  in  the  stabler 
elements  of  intellectual  power.  However  this  may  be,  the 
severe  majesty  of  Hyperion  is  hardly  further  removed  from 
the  loose-flowing  exuberance  of  JEndymion^  than  the  human 
strength  of  The  Cenci  is  from  the  gorgeous  dreaming  of 
The  Revolt  of  Islam. 

But  I  am  inclined  to  think  that,  on  the  whole,  the  most 
perfect,  and  perhaps  the  most  nobly  characteristic,  of  the 
poems  of  Shelley,  is  the  Adonais.  It  is  an  elegaic  poem 
on  the  death  of  Keats.  It  is  not,  indeed,  wholly  undefaced 
by  Shelley's  peculiar  dreaminess  of  fancy.  But  the  theme  is 
one  capable  of  commanding  universal  sympathy,  and  its 
treatment  is  not  such  as  to  repel  any  mind  gifted  with  a 
real  sense  of  the  Beautiful.  The  poem  is  no  less  classic  in 
its  symmetry  and  unity,  than  superb  in  its  imagery.  The 
dead  poet  lies  under  the  blue  Italian  sky,  the  fitting  charnel 
house  for  such  an  one  as  he.     Nature  mourns  around  him. 

"  All  he  had  loved  and  moulded  into  thought, 
From  shape,  and  hue,  and  odor,  and  sweet  sound, 
Lamented  Adonais.     Morning  sought 
Her  eastern  watch-tower,  and  her  hair  unbound, 
Wet  with  the  tears  which  should  adorn  the  ground, 


TENNYSON  AND  HIS  TEACHERS.       67 

Dimmed  the  aerial  eyes  that  kindle  day; 

Pale  ocean  in  unquiet  slumber  lay, 

And  the  wild  winds  flew  around,  sobbing  in  their  dismay •" 

If  absolute  perfection  could  be  predicated  of  any  human 
thing,  I  should  call  that  stanza  perfect ;  utterly  faultless,  at 
once  in  feeling,  imagery,  diction,  and  rhythm.  The  descrip- 
tion of  the  poets  who  come  to  join  their  lamentations  with 
those  of  nature  is  of  corresponding  excellence.  The  close 
is  very  sublime.  In  its  majestic  sadness,  the  stately  Spen- 
serian stanza  reaches  a  swell  and  grandeur,  perhaps  un- 
equalled in  any  passage  in  which  it  has  ever  been  used. 

"  The  breath  whose  might  I  have  invoked  in  song 
Descends  on  me  ;  my  spirit's  bark  is  driven 
Far  from  the  shore,  far  from  the  trembling  throng 
Whose  sails  were  never  to  the  tempest  given ; 
The  massy  earth  and  sphered  skies  are  riven ! 
I  am  borne  darkly,  fearfully  afar ; 
Whilst  burning  through  the  inmost  vail  of  heaven 
The  soul  of  Adonais,  like  a  star, 
Beacons  from  the  abode  where  the  Eternal  are." 

And  words  from  the  pen  of  Keats  were  probably  the  last 
which  ever  passed  through  the  lips  of  Shelley  ! 

The  last  tones  of  the  grand  old  music  had  died  away.v 
Scott  and  Byron,  Campbell  and  Coleridge,  Keats  and  Shel- 
ley, had  ceased  to  cast  abroad  their  vocal  spells ;  and  when 
men  thought  of  Wordsworth,  they  thought  less  of  an 
actually  living  man  than  of  a  marble  bust,  already  in  its 
niche  of  fame,  the  lips  closed  in  majestic  silence,  never 
more  deigning  to  solicit  their  applause.  The  heart  of  the 
British  nation  had  ceased  to  throb  with  the  excitement  of 
the  war.  Napoleon  had  died  amid  the  wail  of  the  far 
Atlantic,    his   sceptre   wrested   from   his  grasp,  and  only 


68  TENNYSON   AND    HIS    TEACHERS. 

the  gleam  of  his  vanished  armies  to  flit  before  his  eye  as 
it  flickered  in  the  last  delirium.  The  death  of  Napoleon 
was  the  termination  of  the  great  historical  drama,  whose 
first  act  opened  in  the  Hall  of  the  States  General  at  Ver- 
sailles in  1789.  A  period  of  greater  stillness,  particularly 
in  Great  Britain,  succeeded ;  a  period  marked  by  no  poetic 
fertility,  and  in  which  poetry  ceased  to  take  the  lead  in 
popular  literature,  but  one  in  which  many  influences  were 
working  towards  undefined  issues,  and  which  brought  to 
light,  in  various  quarters,  more  piercing  and  delicate 
thought,  a  deeper  reflectiveness,  and  a  more  refined  culture, 
than  had  been  apparent  in  the  stirring  time  which  went 
before.  In  the  province  of  philosophy,  the  essays  of  Ham- 
ilton marked  the  introduction  of  a  profounder  erudition 
and  a  more  searching  analysis.  Carlyle's  essay  on  Burns 
may  be  considered  the  first  of  a  series  of  biographical  studies 
by  that  author,  which  must  accomplish  a  revolution  in  our 
mode  of  viewing  man,  and,  by  consequence,  in  our  mode 
of  writing  history :  a  revolution  in  the  course  of  which  the 
whole  theory  of  man  and  his  ways,  accepted  from  French 
philosophism,  and  illustrated  in  such  writings,  marvellous 
in  many  respects,  as  the  history  of  Gibbon,  cannot  fail  to 
be  crumpled  up  like  a  faded  map  and  flung  aside.  Mainly, 
also,  through  the  labors  of  Mr.  Carlyle,  the  influence  of 
the  last  great  outburst  of  German  poetry  and  philosophy 
entered,  more  deeply  than  it  had  previously  done,  into  the 
agencies  by  which  the  most  powerful  young  minds  of  Great 
Britain  were  directed.  But  as  yet  there  was  no  poetic 
voice  in  which  the  blended  influences  of  the  time  combined 
in  cunning  harmony,  and  which  expressed  the  most  delicate 
result  of  its  refined  and  reflective  culture.  For  such  a 
voice,  the  nation  waited. 

In  1830  and  1832   there  issued  successively,  from  the 


TENNYSON  AND  HIS  TEACHERS.       69 

publishing  establishment  of  Mr.  Moxon  of  London,  two 
poetical  volumes.  The  critics  of  the  olden  time  looked  at 
them,  sniffed  lightly,  uttered  a  few  words  of  angry  con- 
tempt, and  passed  on.  Here  and  there  an  eye  glistened, 
as  at  the  streaks  of  a  new  dawn.  Here  and  there  an  ear 
hearkened,  as  to  the  sound  of  a  new  and  trancing  melody. 
But  the  great  body,  even  of  the  cultivated  portion  of  the 
people,  was  unmoved.  Year  after  year  went  on.  Gradu- 
ally, imperceptibly,  surely,  a  change  was  wrought.  The 
light  which  had  touched  the  highest  intellectual  mountain- 
tops  crept  slowly  but  certainly  down  towards  the  lower 
grounds.  The  fact  at  length  dawned  broadly  upon  the 
intellect  of  the  nation  that  an  eye  had  once  more  been 
opened  on  the  Beautiful,  that  a  fresh  revelation  of  loveliness  y^ 
was  being  made,  that  a  great  poet  had  arisen.  That  poet 
was  Alfred  Tennyson.  After  all  that  philosophers  ■  have 
said,  the  essentially  correct  definition  of  poetry  in  the  con- 
crete is,  The  Beautiful  in  sight  wedded  to  the  Beautiful  in"| 
sound.  Alfred  Tennyson,  it  was  perceived,  was  gifted  with 
an  original  perception  of  the  Beautiful  in  man  and  in  nature, 
and  with  an  original  power  of  melody  by  which  to  constrain 
men  to  gaze  upon  his  visions.  It  was  found,  too,  that, 
under  whatever  strange  and  new  conditions,  the  new  poet 
shared  the  sympathies  of  his  time.  His  poetry  was,  as  that 
of  every  great  poet  more  or  less  is,  reflexive  of  the  feelings 
and  characteristics  of  his  age ;  not  necessarily  of  the  most 
common  or  even  the  strongest,  but  certainly  of  some  and 
those  distinctive.  A  movement  may  be  traced  in  the 
literary  public  of  Great  Britain  of  that  period.  The  vast 
body  of  readers  which  had  found  intellectual  enjoyment  in 
the  poetry  of  Scott  and  of  Byron  had  divided  into  two 
great  portions.  The  one,  and  by  far  the  larger,  ceasing  to 
discover  in  the  poetry  of  the  day  that  passionate  excitement 


70       TENNYSON  AND  HIS  TEACHERS. 

which  had  been  found  in  the  poetry  of  Scott  and  Byron, 
had  betaken  itself  to  prose,  mainly  to  the  works  of  Dickens 
and  his  brother  novelists.  The  other,  educated  by  such 
influences  as  those  at  which  we  have  glanced,  and  with 
literary  tastes  refined  by  a  familiar  and  meditative  acquaint- 
ance with  the  poetry  of  the  previous  period,  sought  after  a 
more  exquisite  and  costly  intellectual  pleasure  than  could 
be  yielded  by  such  writers  as  Dickens.  Such  a  pleasure 
was  afforded  in  the  poetry  of  Tennyson.  That  poetry 
reflects  the  most  delicate  civilization  of  the  second  quarter 
of  the  nineteenth  century ;  its  dainty  elegance,  its  critical 
fastidiousness,  its  reflective  musing,  its  slumbering  might. 
The  time,  as  I  said,  was  one  less  of  new  emotion  or  aspira- 
tion, than  of  musing  upon  emotions  and  aspirations  which 
had  entered  the  world  of  mental  influence  in  the  preceding 
years;  and  in  the  poetry  of  Tennyson,  to  use  an  image 
furnished  by  itself,  all  those  thunder-clouds  of  doubt,  fear, 
and  ambition,  which  had  long  been  roofing  the  European 
world,  were  still  visible,  only  they  floated  in  an  evening 
atmosphere,  and  had  grown  golden  all  about  the  sky. 

The  poetical  schools  of  Great  Britain  during  the  first 
part  of  this  century  have  passed  cursorily  before  us ;  and 
I  think  the  glimpses  we  had  of  them  enables  us,  with 
sufficient  decision,  to  trace  the  outline  of  Tennyson's  poeti- 
cal training.  We  can  picture  him  first,  in  the  enthusiasm 
of  boyhood,  hanging  enraptured  over  the  page  of  Scott  or 
Byron.  The  solemn  music  of  Wordsworth  would  then 
woo  him  to  a  loftier  region  and  awaken  him  to  a  more 
spiritual  enjoyment,  the  works  of  the  two  most  popular 
poets  of  the  age  ceasing  to  satisfy  the  highest  cravings  of 
his  nature.  Coleridge,  Keats,  and  Shelley  would  afford 
that  nourishment  and  that  delight  to  his  strictly  poetical 
taste,  of  which  he  was  in  quest.     The  great  poets  of  a 


TENNYSON  AND  HIS  TEACHERS.       71 

former  age,  Shakspeare,  Milton,  and  whoever  were  great- 
est among  their  predecessors  and  successors,  would  not,  of 
course,  have  escaped  his  studious  attention. 

It  may  be  said  that  these  remarks  are  superfluous,  since, 
in  an  age  of  culture,  every  poet  may  be  concluded  to  have 
made  himself  master  of  the  poetic  wealth  of  his  country. 
But  I  am  impressed  with  the  idea  that  an  altogether 
peculiar  relation  subsists  between  the  poetry  of  Tennyson 
and  that  of  the  great  masters  by  whom  he  was  preceded, 
more  especially  of  those  near  his  own  time.  The  spirit 
of  former  schools  appears  to  me  to  have  passed  into  his 
poetry,  determining  its  character  though  undergoing  perfect 
transformation.  If,  to  change  the  figure,  I  might  imagine 
the  great  poets  of  the  language  pouring  the  contributions 
of  their  genius  into  one  golden  chalice,  I  should  call  the 
poetry  of  Tennyson  a  delicately  tinted,  exquisitely  refined 
foam,  mantling  on  the  top.  This  comparison,  I  need  hardly 
say,  does  not  necessarily  assign  to  Tennyson  a  higher  place 
than  belongs  to  any  of  the  poets  who  preceded  him.  You 
may  excel  any  number  of  masters  in  single  effects,  yet  be, 
on  the  whole,  inferior  to  them  all.  On  this  point  I  do  not 
speak.  Nor  does  the  figure  impugn  the  essential  originality 
of  Tennyson's  genius.  Originality  is  to  be  .judged  by  the 
result :  so  long  as  the  hues  of  the  flower  are  blended  in  the 
unity  of  life  and  nature,  and  compel  you  to  feel  the  magic 
and  freshness  of  their  beauty,  you  cannot  affect  its  essential 
newness  by  naming  its  scientific  elements,  or  by  telling 
how  the  soil  was  dressed  in  which  it  grew.  But  bearing 
these  things  in  mind,  it  is  an  interesting  and  quickening 
application  of  the  critical  faculty,  to  trace,  in  the  poetry  of 
Tennyson,  the  effects  of  that  complex  influence  under  which 
his  genius  developed.  (His  figures  are  more  definite  in 
form  and  more  finished  in  detail  than  those  of  Scott :  but 


72  TENNYSON   AND    HIS   TEACHERS. 

in  the  bright,  wandering  gleams  from  the  days  of  chivalry, 
which  flit  across  the  page  of  Tennyson,  may  we  not  detect 
the  influence  of  the  great  romancer  of  Scotland  ?  In  his 
occasional  bursts  of  passion,  may  we  not,  though  dubiously, 
suffer  ourselves  to  be  reminded  of  Byron  ?  The  spirit  of 
Wordsworth  is  ever  near,  as  a  mild,  pervading  presencej/ 
breathing  not  only  in  the  high  and  unsullied  morality,  but 
perceptible  at  times,  in  idyllic  passages  of  liquid  sweetness, 
in  a  whispered  suggestion  of  Wordsworthian  childishness. 
The  influence  of(  Coleridge  and  Shelley  we  can  hardly  err 
in  discovering  in  the  delicate  harmony  and  inwoven  richness 
of  the  versification,  perhaps,  also,  in  the  choice  of  imagery* 
Nor  must  we  fail  to  recollect  those  foreign  influences  to 
which  allusions  has  been  made,  as  playing  an  important  part 
in  moulding  the  ideas  of  the  most  cultivated  minds  in  the 
period  of  Tennyson's  education.  The  poetry  of  Dante 
became  then  the  object  of  very  careful  study,  and  the 
manner  of  Dante,  the  sternest  of  poetical  realists,  is  per- 
petually exhibited  in  the  poems  of  Tennyson.  That  intense 
realization  too,  of  the  idea  of  art,  which  was  represented 
by  Goethe,  and  that  absolute  elaboration  which  his  works 
exhibit,  had  beyond  question  left  an  ineffaceable  impression 
on  the  mind  of  Tennyson.  But  of  all  the  teachers  of 
Tennyson,  there  was  none  with  whose  genius  his  own  was 
more  strictly  consonant,  or  whom  he  has,  or  appears  to 
have  more  diligently  studied,  than  John  Keats.  So  close, 
indeed,  is  the  affinity  between  the  poetical  genius  of  Tenny- 
son and  that  of  Keats,  that  the  mention  of  the  latter  con- 
ducts us  naturally  to  what  must  be  the  central  problem  in 
a  critique  on  any  poet,  the  question  as  to  what  is  the  par- 
*   ticular  quality  and  order  of  his  imagination. 

A  truce  to  philosophers.     If  we  once  permitted  ourselves 
to  dive  into  the  subterranean  regions  of  discussion,  analysis, 


TENNYSON    AND    HIS    TEACHERS.  73 

and  definition,  we  should  emerge  into  the  fair  fields  and 
open  skies  of  objective  poetry,  only  with  jaded  limbs  and 
exhausted  patience.  Whether  there  is  an  essential  differ- 
ence between  fancy  and  imagination,  in  what  exact  sense 
imagination  can  be  pronounced  creative,  whether  its  opera- 
tion is  of  the  nature  of  that  of  the  reason,  conscious  and 
deliberate,  or  of  the  nature  of  dreams,  involuntary  and 
hardly  conscious,  are  questions  on  which  I  may  have  a 
decided  opinion  or  not,  but  which  I  beg  leave  not  to  dis- 
cuss at  present.  Our  object  will  be  attained  with  equal 
completeness,  and  far  greater  comfort,  by  considering 
merely  two  modes,  broadly  discriminated  and  perhaps  all- 
embracing,  in  which  different  poets  produce  their  effects, 
or  in  which  the  same  poets  write  on  different  occasions. 

The  first  of  these  modes  might  be  styled  that  of  the 
imagination  stimulative :  the  second  that  of  the  imagina- 
tion delineative.  The  one  deals  in  bold,  dashing,  single 
strokes.  It  casts  a  flash  of  light  over  a  wide  surface  of 
country,  causing  every  mountain  ridge,  every  valley  stream, 
every  castled  crag,  to  gleam  for  a  moment  on  the  eye,  but 
revealing  no  geographical  details.  It  evokes  the  imagina- 
tion of  the  reader,  by  striking  but  comparatively  indefinite 
epithets.  It  says  a  face  was  lovely,  a  storm  terrible,  a 
lake  beautiful;  but  it  does  not  dwell  on  the  "snow-and- 
rose-bloom"  in  the  maiden's  face,  it  does  not  particularize 
the  terrors  of  the  storm,  it  does  not  speak  of  every  cloud 
that  wandered  over  the  lake,  or  mention  the  flowers  that 
glassed  themselves  in  its  mirror.  It  runs  with  wizard  hand 
over  a  thousand  cords  of  association,  sympathy,  affection, 
touching  the  string  but  trusting  to  nature  for  the  vibrar 
tion.  Not  so  with  imagination  in  her  other  mood.  She 
then  seems  to  draw  near  to  the  painter,  that  she  may 
imitate  the  definiteness  of  his  colors,  to  the  sculptor,  that 

FIRST   SERIES.  7 


74  TENNYSON    AND   HIS    TEACHERS. 

she  may  reach  the  perfection  of  his  forms,  She  exhausts 
her  subject.  She  deals  in  measurement  and  detail.  Her 
aim  is  not  to  arouse  but  to  satisfy,  not  to  stimulate  but 
to  delineate ;  or  if  both  to  rouse  and  stimulate,  then  by 
the  effect  of  minute  and  elaborate  painting. 

But  old  Hume  reminds  me  that  criticism  will  not  be 
of  much  use  until  it  deals  in  abundant  instance  and  illus- 
tration. I  shall  attempt,  therefore,  to  make  good  my 
position,  respecting  the  modes  of  imaginative  operation 
which  I  have  defined,  and  to  afford  illustration  of  those 
modes,  by  one  or  two  references  and  citations.  I  premise 
that,  as  there  is  no  such  thing  as  a  mathematical  line  in 
nature,  neither  have  we  here  an  exact  boundary  line.  No 
poet  has  ever  exhibited  either  of  the  imaginative  modes 
to  the  complete  exclusion  of  the  other.  Some  poets  exhibit 
both  in  proportions  difficult  to  define.  But  certain  poets 
lean  so  manifestly  towards  the  one,  and  others  so  generally 
to  the  other,  that  the  fact  affords  a  satisfactory  means  of 
classification. 

Of  imagination  stimulative,  I  suppose  Homer  would  be 
cited  as  having  furnished  examples  hardly  to  be  surpassed. 
The  old  man  is  of  course  garrulous  and  minute,  but  he  is 
fond  also  of  the  single  flash,  of  the  daring  sweep,  of  the 
word  that  kindles  a  whole  dawn,  of  the  comparison  which 
evokes  a  whole  shadowy  host  of  thoughts,  sympathies, 
imaginings.  His  heroes  are  so  often  lion-like  !  His  many 
sounding  sea  draws  on  our  imagination  so  endlessly !  -  Sten- 
tor  bawls  as  loud  as  fifty ;  a  great  indefinite  bellow,  only 
beyond  the  reach  of  any  dozen  of  ordinary  mortals. 
Achilles  wanders  by  the  surf,  looking  unutterable  things, 
but  the  curtains  of  his  sublime  sorrow  are  not  drawn. 
Milton,  with  all  his  austerity,  and  though  his  rhythm  is  as 
the  measured  and  martial  music  of  angelic  armies,  is  one 


TENNYSON  AND  HIS  TEACHERS.       75 

of  the  greatest  masters  of  this  from  of  imagination.  Gen- 
eration after  generation  will  ponder  his  immortal  words, 
and  every  new  form  of  apprehension,  distress,  dismay,  ter- 
ror, or  the  reverse,  that  the  ages  exhibit,  will  be  compelled 
by  his  irresistible  imagination  to  minister  to  its  ends.  The 
eyes  of  men  will  ever  peer  into  that  "  darkness  visible,"  and 
never  will  they  cease  to  discover  in  it 

"  sights  of  woe, 
Regions  of  sorrow,  doleful  shades,  where  peace 
And  rest  can  never  dwell." 

Celestial  music  ever  new  in  tone,  celestial  fragrance  never 
to  be  exhausted,  breathe  round  his  Raphaels  and  Uriels ; 
and  the  deep  scars  of  thunder,  sublimely  indefinite,  will 
never  cease  to  be  gazed  at,  with  awe  and  terror,  on  the 
brow  of  the  fallen  Angel.  But  the  finest  example  of  this 
form  of  imagination  in  existence  is  beyond  question  the 
description  of  the  horse  in  Job.  "  Hast  thou  given  the 
horse  strength  ?  hast  thou  clothed  his  neck  with  thunder  ? 
canst  thou  make  him  afraid  as  a  grasshopper  ?  the  glory 
of  his  nostrils  is  terrible.  He  paweth  in  the  valley,  and 
rejoiceth  in  his  strength :  he  goeth  on  to  meet  the  armed 
men.  He  mocketh  at  fear,  and  is  not  affrighted ;  neither 
turneth  he  back  from  the  sword.  The  quiver  rattleth 
against  him,  the  glittering  spear  and  the  shield.  He 
swalloweth  the  ground  with  fierceness  and  rage;  neither 
believeth  he  that  it  is  the  sound  of  the  trumpet.  He 
saith  among  the  trumpets,  Ha,  ha!  and  he  smelleth  the 
battle  afar  off,  the  thunder  of  the  captains  and  the  shout- 
ing." There  is,  under  all  this  description,  a,  stern  and  ac- 
curate realism.  The  abstract  qualities  of  the  horse,  his 
strength,  courage,  and  the  majesty  of  his  movements, 
are  discerned  with  unerring  truth.     But  what  words  can 


76  TENNYSON   AND    HIS    TEACHERS. 

express  the  wonder  with  which  we  silently  look  upon  the 
final  picture !  If  the  impressions  of  a  thousand  differently 
constituted  minds- could  be  recorded  after  surveying  the 
marvellous  portraiture,  each  set  of  impressions  would  prove 
different,  yet  every  mind,  if  capable  of  being  moved  at  all, 
would  have  been  stirred  to  its  depths.  By  the  very  free- 
dom which  is  accorded  to  the  impressions  of  the  individual 
beholder,  imagination  is  laid  under  a  spell  which,  will  make 
it  work  in  all  climes  and  countries  forever. 

Dante  and  Spenser  belong  to  the  class  of  imaginative 
delineators  perhaps  as  obviously  as  any  poets  of  the  whole 
past.  Mr.  Macaulay  has  contrasted  Milton  and  Dante  on 
essentially  the  same  grounds  as  those  on  which  we  are  at 
present  dividing  poets  into  two  classes.  The  poet  of 
Florence,  whose  face  we  see  in  his  portraits,  staring  on 
there,  as  if,  with  unblenching  earnestness,  it  would  look 
through  the  very  sky,  seems  to  have  disdained  the  min- 
istry of  the  imagination  of  his  fellows.  Cold,  stern,  deter- 
mined, he  graved,  with  a  pen  of  iron,  to  the  last  line,  and 
then  left  his  writing  in  the  rock  forever.  Spenser  is  equally 
minute,  but  there  is  no  sternness  in  Spenser.  Dante  fin- 
ishes, because  his  proud  austerity  will  leave  no  touch  to 
be  added  by  any  other  finger,  because  he  scorns  toil  and 
pain,  and  yearns  after  hard  actual  truth.  Spenser  finishes 
because  he  loves,  or  because  his  genial  all-embracing  humor 
makes  him  never  tire  of  any  figure,  however  grotesque  or 
monstrous,  which  he  has  once  evoked.  He  will  not  lose  one 
of  the  smiles  of  Una.  He  loves  every  tree  of  the  forest, 
and  gives  you  the  name  of  each.  If  he  stands  on  a  heaven- 
kissing  hill,  he  is  so  enraptured  with  the  beauty  of  earth 
and  heaven,  that  he  must  needs  tell  you  of  every  cloud  in 
the  sky  and  every  flower  in  the  meadow.  Even  when  he 
yokes  unsightly  creatures  in  hideous  cars,  he  does  not  get 


TENNYSON  AND  HIS  TEACHERS.       77 

angry  with  them :   he  looks  and  lingers,  and  describes, 
laughing,  perhaps,  a  quiet  laugh. 

Shakspeare  will  afford,  wherever  we  choose  to  open, 
admirable  examples  of  both  our  forms  of  imaginative  ex- 
ertion. 

"  Ay,  every  inch  a  king : 
When  I  do  stare,  see  how  the  subject  quakes  !" 

These  words  of  Lear  are  a  magnificent  example  of  the 
imagination  that  awakens  and  stimulates.  There  is  nothing 
of  kingly  dignity,  of  imposing  presence,  of  majesty  to 
awe,  and  power  to  terrify,  which  you  cannot  associate 
with  that  line  and  a  half.  The  description  of  Dover  Cliff, 
almost  immediately  preceding,  is  a  specimen,  though  not 
so  pure,  in  the  other  kind.  The  suggestive  imagination 
insinuates  its  voice  in  a  whisper;  but  the  closeness  of 
detail  is  sufficient  for  illustration. 

"  How  fearful 
And  dizzy  't  is,  to  cast  one's  eyes  so  low ! 
The  crows,  and  choughs,  that  wing  the  midway  air, 
Show  scarce  so  gross  as  beetles :  half  way  down 
Hangs  one  that  gathers  samphire ;  dreadful  trade  ! 
Methinks  he  seems  no  bigger  than  his  head. 
The  fishermen,  that  walk  upon  the  beach, 
Appear  like  mice ;  and  yon  tall  anchoring  bark, 
Diminished  to  her  cock  ;  her  cock,  a  buoy 
Almost  too  small  for  sight :  the  murmuring  surge, 
That  on  the  unnumbered  idle  pebbles  chafes, 
Cannot  be  heard  so  high  :  —  I  '11  look  no  more  ; 
Lest  my  brain  turn,  and  the  deficient  sight 
Topple  down  headlong." 

Of  all  the  poets  of  the  commencement  of  this  century, 
John  Keats  exhibited,  most  distinctively  and  with  the 

7* 


78  TENNYSON   AND    HIS    TEACHERS. 

greatest  success,  the  second  form  of  imaginative  descrip- 
tion. His  intimacy  with  Leigh  Hunt  perhaps  influenced 
him  to  adopt  this  style.  The  Story  of  Rimini  by  the 
former  is  a  very  fine  specimen  of  rich,  warm,  detailed 
coloring.  But  The  Eve  of  JSt.  Agnes  not  merely  casts 
the  work  of  Hunt  into  utter  eclipse  but  is  one  of  the  very 
finest  examples  of  the  style  in  existence.  The  opening 
stanza  at  once  reveals  imagination  in  her  lingering,  loving, 
particularizing  mood. 

"  St.  Agnes'  Eve  —  Ah,  bitter  chill  it  was  ! 
The  owl,  for  all  his  feathers,  was  a-cold ; 
The  hare  limp'd  trembling  through  the  frozen  grass, 
And  silent  was  the  flock  in  woolly  fold  *. 
Numb  were  the  Beadsman's  fingers  while  he  told 
His  rosary,  and  while  his  frosted  breath, 
Like  pious  incense  from  a  censer  old, 
Seem'd  taking  flight  for  heaven  without  a  death, 
Past  the  sweet  Virgin's  picture,  while  his  prayer  he  saith." 

But  I  need  not  scruple  to  quote  once  more  the  most 
wonderful  passage  in  this  wonderful  poem,  a  passage 
which  perhaps  no  poet  but  Keats  could  ever  have  written, 
which  in  the  closeness  of  its  detail  is  a  perfectly  distinctive 
example  of  the  delineative  imagination,  and  which,  in  the 
perfect  loveliness  of  every  tint,  exhibits  how  rich  a  poetic 
effect  can  be  produced  by  the  imagination  that  so  works. 

"  A  casement  high  and  triple-arch'd  there  was, 
All  garlanded  with  carven  imageries 
Of  fruits,  and  flowers,  and  bunches  of  knot-grass, 
And  diamonded  with  panes  of  quaint  device, 
Innumerable  of  stains  and  splendid  dyes, 
As  are  the  tiger-moth's  deep-damask'd  wings ; 
And  in  the  midst,  'mong  thousand  heraldries, 


TENNYSON  AND  HIS  TEACHERS.       79 

And  twilight  saints,  and  dim  emblazonings, 

A  shielded  scutcheon  blush'd  with  blood  of  queens  and  kings. 

Full  on  this  casement  shone  the  wintry  moon, 
And  threw  warm  gules  on  Madeline's  fair  breast, 
As  down  she  knelt  for  heaven's  grace  and  boon ; 
Rose  bloom  fell  on  her  hands,  together  prest, 
And  on  her  hair  a  glory,  like  a  saint : 
She  seem'd  a  splendid  angel,  newly  drest, 
Save  wings,  for  heaven  :  —  Porphyro  grew  faint : 
She  knelt,  so  pure  a  thing,  so  free  from  mortal  taint. 

Anon  his  heart  revives  :  her  vespers  done, 
Of  all  its  wreathed  pearls  her  hair  she  frees ; 
Unclasps  her  warmed  jewels  one  by  one ; 
Loosens  her  fragrant  boddice ;  by  degrees 
Her  rich  attire  creeps  rustling  to  her  knees : 
Half  hidden,  like  a  mermaid  in  sea  weed, 
Pensive  a  while  she  dreams  awake,  and  sees, 
In  fancy,  fair  St.  Agnes  in  her  bed, 
But  does  not  look  behind  or  all  the  charm  is  fled." 

I  must  repeat  that  no  poet  of  great  genius  belongs 
exclusively  to  either  of  the  classes  I  have  endeavored  to 
discriminate.  The  general  manner  is,  in  The  Eve  of  /St. 
Agnes,  unmistakeably  marked:  yet  there  might  be  cited 
from  its  stanzas  example  after  example  of  those  far-illumin- 
ing words  and  burning  metaphors,  which  belong  specially 
to  the  first  kind  of  imaginative  action.  In  turning  to 
Tennyson,  we  must  not  expect  a  uniformity  not  to  be 
found  elsewhere,  and  perhaps  inconsistent  with  powerful 
genius.  But  the  order  of  his  imagination  is  marked  with 
a  distinctness  not  admitting  of  doubt.  It  delights  in 
detail,  delineation,  finish.  Herein  is  found  the  key  to 
a  critical  appreciation  of  the  poet ;  the  point  of  view  from 
which,  surveying  all  he  has  done,  his  true  station  among 


80  TENNYSON   AND   HIS    TEACHERS. 

masters  in  the  same  kind  may  be  discovered.  Broad  as  are 
the  flashes  of  light  which  he  casts  at  times  across  his  page, 
exhaustless  as  is  the  suggestion  which  lurks  in  many  of 
his  metaphors,  belonging  as  some  of  his  entire  poems  do 
to  the  other  class,  it  is  side  by  side  with  Dante,  Spenser, 
and  Keats  that  he  takes  his  stand.  It  was  just  about  the 
time  when  his  poetical  genius  was  first  growing  into  con- 
sciousness of  its  might,  and  in  all  probability  looking  earn- 
estly for  any  aids,  in  the  way  of  model  or  advice,  to  help  its 
expansion,  that  Great  Britain  was  awaking  to  a  sense  of  the 
loss  sustained  in  the  death  of  Keats,  and  when  that  criticism, 
which  had  killed  by  its  loud  and  indiscriminate  censure, 
was  hasting  to  mock  by  its  loud  and  indiscriminate  ap- 
plause. I  cannot  but  think,  therefore,  that  Tennyson  must 
have  devoted  to  the  works  of  Keats  a  close,  deliberate, 
and  emulous  attention ;  nor  do  I  know  a  better  introduc- 
tion to  the  poetry  of  the  former  than  a  familiar  acquaint- 
ance with  that  of  the  latter.  One  might  shrink  from  the 
comparison  of  Tennyson  with  the  three  great  poets  with 
whom  I  have  classed  him.  My  idea  of  his  poetry,  as  an 
abstract  of  the  perfections  of  other  schools  wrapped  in  the 
light  of  a  new  idealization,  tends  to  repel  even  the  sug- 
gestion of  such  a  comparison.  But  I  do  not  hesitate  to 
^v  say  that  in  the  works  of  our  great  living  poet,  there  are 
traces  of  the  supreme  excellences  of  Dante,  of  Keats,  and 
Spenser:  the  austere  grandeur  and  painful  finish  of  the 
Florentine,  the  classic  taste  and  intellectual  strength  exhib- 
ited in  Hyperion,  and  the  mellowed  splendor,  the  golden 
jjlow,  the  lavish  opulence,  of  Spenser. 

A  glance,  however  cursory,  at  certain  of  the  poems  of 
Tennyson,  is  sufficient  to  prove  and  illustrate  the  preceding 
statements. 
The  Recollections  of  the  Arabian  Nights^  one  of  the 


TENNYSON  AND  HIS  TEACHERS.       81 

most  remarkable  pieces  in  Tennyson's  first  volume,  reminds 
one  strongly  of  the  Lamia  of  Keats.  In  that  poem,  the 
latter  shrinks  not  from  the  most  minute  detail.  He  de- 
scribes his  hall  of  banquet  with  the  accuracy  of  an  inven- 
tory. You  know  how  the  flowers  festoon  from  pillar  to 
pillar,  how  every  capital  is  wreathed,  whether  the  vases 
are  fluted  or  plain,  where  the  light  falls  from  every  lamp. 
The  youthful  Tennyson,  in  the  poem  I  first  named,  dreams 
himself  away  to  a  scene  in  the  far  East,  when  the  Sultan 
is  in  the  full  blush  of  his  glory,  and  gazes  entranced  on  the 
floral  and  festal  magnificence  by  which  he  finds  himself 
surrounded.  Dauntless  in  its  consciousness  of  power,  his 
imagination  does  not  say  how  beautiful  or  grand  was  the 
eastern  garden  scenery ;  it  tells  precisely  what  that  scenery 
was,  it  details  each  of  its  particular  appearances.  We  may 
think  it  beautiful  or  not  as  we  please :  the  poet  merely  tells 
us  what  he  saw.  No  sooner  is  he  afloat  on  the  Tigris  than 
we  find  that  the  gold  of  the  shrines  of  Bagdat  was  fretted, 
and  that  the  gardens  were  high  walled.  His  shallop  rustles 
through  foliage  that  is  low  and  covered  with  bloom,  and 
the  shadows,  falling  over  the  fragrant,  glistening  water,  are 
not  general,  indiscriminate  shadows,  but  the  particular  ones 
cast  from  the  citron  trees.  When  he  passes  from  the  river 
into  the  canal,  he  finds  the  outlet  guarded  by  platans ;  the 
pillared  palms  make  a  vault  above  him  as  he  glides  along, 
and  the  sweet  odors  which  attempt  to  climb  heavenward 
are  stayed  beneath  the  dome  of  hollow  boughs ;  the  canal 
is  rounded  to  a  lake,  and  the  silver-chiming  music  of  the 
rills,  that  fall  into  the  water  from  the  green  rivage  above, 
seems  to  shake  the  sparkling  flints  beneath  his  prow;  on 
either  side  of  the  lake  are  fluted  vases  and  brazen  urns,  duly 
occupied  by  flowers,  of  which  some  drop  low  their  crim- 
son bells,  while  others  are  studded  with  disks  and  tiars ; 


82  TENNYSON   AND    HIS   TEACHERS. 

and  the  bulbul  sings  in  the  coverture  of  the  lemon  grove. 
Getting  ashore  and  leaving  his  boat  hanging  by  its  silver 
anchor,  he  is  led  on  towards  the  pavilion  of  the  Caliphat. 
The  doors  are  of  cedar,  and  are  carved;  they  are  flung 
inward  over  spangled  floors ;  broad  flights  of  stairs  run 
up,  and  the  balustrade  is  of  gold;  there  are  fourscore 
windows,  which  are  lighted.  At  last  he  looks  upon  the 
great  Sultan  himself,  and  the  author  of  the  Court  Circular, 
published  next  morning  in  Bagdat,  could  not  have  de- 
scribed more  faithfully  the  tout  ensemble  of  his  Majesty. 

"  Six  columns,  three  on  either  side, 

Pure  silver,  underpropt  a  rich 

Throne  of  the  massive  ore,  from  which 

Down-droop'd,  in  many  a  floating  fold, 

Engarlanded  and  diaper'd 

"With  inwrought  flowers,  a  cloth  of  gold. 

Thereon,  his  deep  eye  laughter-stirr'd 

With  merriment  of  kingly  pride, 

Sole  star  of  all  that  place  and  time, 

I  saw  him  in  his  golden  prime, 

The  GOOD  HAROUN  ALRASCHED  I" 

The  Lady  of  Shallott,  JEnone,  Mariana  in  the  Moated 
Grange,  and  Mariana  in  the  South  need  only  to  be  named 
in  order  to  recall  the  detail  of  their  finishing.  It  is  the 
hand  of  a  pre-Raphaelite  that  draws  the  lines  and  brings 
out  the  tints.  But  it  is  needless  to  multiply  examples. 
I  choose  one  which  will,  I  think,  prove  ample,  and  may  be 
conclusive. 

The  Palace  of  Art  is  one  of  Tennyson's  most  charac- 
teristic and  marvellous  works.  If  all  his  other  poems  were 
lost,  I  am  persuaded  that,  from  this  alone  could  be  defined 
the  essential  quality  and  order  of  his  genius.     Of  its  value 


TENNYSON    AND    HIS    TEACHERS.  83 

in  philosophy,  of  the  profundity  or  practical  worth  of  the 
thought  it  embodies,  I  do  not  now  speak.  It  is  as  an 
exhibition  of  Tennyson's  mode  of  imaginative  operation, 
that  I  regard  it.  But  it  is  impossible  to  proceed  except  by 
quotation,  since  no  summary  could  convey  an  adequate 
idea  of  its  architectural  detail.  I  begin,  therefore,  by 
citing  the  passage  in  which  the  erection  of  the  Palace  is 
described. 

"  A  huge  crag  platform,  smooth  as  burnish'd  brass, 
I  chose.     The  ranged  ramparts  bright 
From  level  meadow-bases  of  deep  grass 
Suddenly  scaled  the  light. 

Thereon  I  built  it  firm.     Of  ledge  or  shelf 

The  rock  rose  clear,  or  winding  stair. 
****** 

•I*  1*  V  *!•  •!*  «|6 

Four  courts  I  made,  east,  west  and  south  and  north, 

In  each  a  squared  lawn,  wherefrom 
The  golden  gorge  of  dragons  spouted  forth 

A  flood  of  fountain-foam. 

And  round  the  cool  green  courts  there  ran  a  row 
Of  cloisters,  branched  like  mighty  woods, 

Echoing  all  night  to  that  sonorous  flow 
Of  spouted  fountain-floods. 

And  round  the  roofs  a  gilded  gallery, 

That  lent  broad  verge  to  distant  lands, 
Far  as  the  wild  swan  wings,  to  where  the  sky 

Dipt  down  to  sea  and  sands. 

From  those  four  jets  four  currents  in  one  swell 

Across  the  mountain  streamed  below 
In  misty  folds,  that,  floating  as  they  fell, 

Lit  up  a  torrent-bow. 


84  TENNYSON    AND    HIS   TEACHERS. 

And  high  on  every  peak  a  statue  seem'd 

To  hang  on  tiptoe,  tossing  up 
A  cloud  of  incense,  of  all  odor  steam'd 

From  out  a  golden  cup. 

So  that  she  thought,  '  And  who  shall  gaze  upon 

My  palace  with  unblinded  eyes, 
While  this  great  bow  will  waver  in  the  sun, 

And  that  sweet  incense  rise  ? ' 

For  that  sweet  incense  rose  and  never  fail'd, 
And,  while  day  sank  or  mounted  higher, 

The  light,  aerial  gallery,  golden  rail'd, 
Burnt  like  a  fringe  of  fire. 

Likewise  the  deep-set  windows,  stain'd  and  traced, 

Would  seem  slow-flaming  crimson  fires 
From  shadow'd  grots  of  arches  interlaced, 

And  tipt  with  frost-like  spires." 

The  structure,  it  must  be  seen,  is  conceived  as  a  whole. 
It  has  the  massiveness  of  architecture,  its  proportion,  and 
its  completeness.  Roberts  could  not  have  rendered  more 
minutely  the  aerial  gallery,  the  statues  on  the  top,  or  the 
Gothic  windows  with  their  frost-like  spires.  Contrast  with 
Tennyson's  description  the  following  by  Edgar  Poe. 

"  In  the  greenest  of  our  valleys, 
By  good  angels  tenanted, 
Once  a  fair  and  stately  palace, 
Radiant  palace,  reared  its  head. 

In  the  monarch  Thought's  dominion, 

It  stood  there ; 
Never  seraph  spread  a  pinion 

Over  fabric  half  so  fair. 


TENNYSON   AND    HIS    TEACHERS.  85 

Banners  yellow,  glorious,  golden, 
On  the  roof  did  float  and  flow." 

With  the  respective  merits  of  these  delineations  we  have 
nothing  to  do.  But  how  different  they  are!  The  great 
American  poet  awakens  your  imagination  by  the  mention 
of  radiant  lights  and  floating  banners.  His  palace  is  ideal, 
shadowy,  touched  with  new  hues  by  every  imagination. 
Painters  for  many  generations  might  attempt  to  portray 
it,  and  each  canvass  would  exhibit  an  edifice  bearing  no 
traceable  resemblance  to  any  of  the  others.  But  Tennyson 
will  have  none  of  your  palace  :  he  builds  you  his  own.  If 
you  paint  it,  you  must  be  careful ;  if  you  painted  it  a 
hundred  times,  you  would  be  constrained  to  make  the 
great  features  the  same.  A  crag  platform,  rising  four- 
square from  a  plain  of  grass ;  a  stream  pouring  over  the 
face  of  the  crag ;  a  roof  with  peaks,  on  each  of  which  stands 
a  statue  bearing  incense ;  a  bartizan  faced  by  a  golden 
railing  :  —  these  must  enter  into  every  attempt  to  paint  the 
Palace  of  Art.  We  find,  then,  that  the  characteristic  of 
Tennyson's  delineation  is  extreme  accuracy,  minute  archi- 
tectural clearness.  Yet  the  passage  I  have  quoted  would 
in  general  be  pronounced  obscure,  and  it  is  precisely  in 
such  passages  that  the  difficulty  of  Tennyson's  style  is 
exhibited.  I  feel  assured  that  the  lines  of  Poe  would,  by 
the  majority  of  readers,  be  pronounced  the  clearer  of  the 
two.  How  is  this?  The  answer  can  be  rendered  with 
perfect  decision.  The  general  imagination  is  far  more  dis- 
tinguished by  excitability,  than  by  definiteness  of  vision. 
The  eye  glances  along  the  page,  securing  the  mental 
impression,  not  realizing  the  separate  pictures.  This  im- 
pression is  what  the  stimulative  imagination  aims  at,  and 
the  most  popular  poetry  of  all  ages  has  therefore  been  the 

FIRST   SERIES.  8 


86  TENNYSON    AND    HIS    TEACHERS. 

work  of  the  stimulative  imagination.  But  it  is  quite  im- 
possible for  the  same  sort  of  perusal  to  suit  both  the 
modes  of  imagination.  In  the  one  case,  the  single  word 
or  metaphor  produces  its  own  effect,  and  there  an  end.  In 
the  other  case,  word  must  find  its  word,  stanza  must  be, 
swiftly  or  slowly,  collated  with  stanza.  If  all  the  limbs 
and  features  of  the  body,  in  a  human  delineation,  are 
specified  in  their  true  forms  and  colors ;  if  all  the  parts  of 
an  edifice  architecturally  correspond ;  the  scattered  mem- 
bers can  unite  into  one  living  frame,  the  separate  courts 
and  galleries  into  one  palace.  But  if  the  delineative  poet 
has,  in  ifae  course  of  his  perilous  enumeration,  put  an  arch 
where  there  should  be  a  pillar,  or  a  battlement  where  there 
should  be  a  rampart,  his  edifice  is  strictly  a  heap  of  dis- 
jointed rubbish.  If  the  reader's  imagination  refuses  to 
follow  the  poet  in  meek  obedience,  the  whole  becomes, 
whether  correct  in  itself  or  no,  an  unintelligible  mass  of 
confusion,  or  an  unimpressive  blank.  The  descriptions  of 
Spenser,  Keats,  and  Tennyson  are  literally  too  clear  to  be 
instantly  comprehended ;  dark  with  excess  of  light.  Only 
be  silent  and  listen  to  such  poets  and  they  will  tell  you  far 
more  than  that  their  mansions  are  stately,  their  forests  rich 
in  light  and  shade,  their  maidens  sweet  and  rosy.  The 
indefinite,  flickering  light  of  your  own  imagination  is  sternly 
shorn  away :  but  by  degrees  the  creation  of  the  poet,  rest- 
ing calm  as  against  the  sky  of  dawn,  every  crystal  spire 
unchangeably  fixed,  every  golden  pillar  standing  immov- 
able, rises  before  you  and  remains  forever. 

It  is  a  tempting  question,  which  of  these  orders  of 
delineation  demands  the  greater  power  and  is  essentially 
the  greater.  Perhaps  they  are  co-ordinate.  I  confess  that, 
though  the  delight  I  have  received  from  such  descriptions 
as  those  of  Spenser,  Keats,  and  Tennyson,  has  been  inex- 


TENNYSON  AND  HIS  TEACHERS.       87 

pressibly  intense,  I  am  inclined  to  yield  to  the  voice  of 
humanity,  which  has,  in  all  ages,  accorded  supreme  popu- 
larity to  the  poets  of  the  first  class.  From  Homer  to 
Byron,  those  poets  have  exercised  the  most  potent  influence 
over  the  mass  of  men,  whose  touch  has  been  sweeping,  who 
have  delighted  in  broad  masses  of  shade  and  sunshine, 
who  have  scattered  imaginative  spells  rather  than  finished 
imaginative  pictures.  Viewed  abstractly,  however,  the 
case  on  the  other  side  is  exceedingly  strong.  If  imagina- 
tion works  perfectly  in  every  detail,  and  yet  unites  her 
whole  composition  in  living  harmony,  is  it  fair  to  impugn 
the  supremacy  of  her  might,  because  the  human  eye, 
dazzled,  it  may  be,  by  false  glories,  turbid  through  ignoble 
admirations,  and  incapable  of  a  long,  calm  gaze,  fails  to 
take  in  the  magnificent  sweep  of  her  lines,  to  perceive  the 
elaborate  correspondence  of  her  colors  ?  Beyond  question, 
the  higher  the  scale  of  culture,  the  higher  is  the  pleasure 
found  in  the  work  perfect  in  its  minuteness  as  well  as  in 
its  majesty;  beyond  question,  too,  the  poets  who  have 
delighted  in  such  work,  Dante  perhaps  excepted,  have 
depended  more,  for  their  power  of  fascination,  on  their 
pure  sense  of  beauty,  than  on  the  breadth  of  their  human 
sympathies  or  power  of  general  interest.  The  sense  of 
abstract  loveliness  was  possessed  by  Spenser  and  Keats  as 
strongly  and  as  exquisitely  as  by  any  men  that  ever  lived. 
It  might  be  urged,  too,  that,  in  this  form  of  imaginative 
exertion,  the  sister  Arts,  poetry  and  painting,  meet,  while 
the  indefinite  imagination  affords  no  forms  or  colors  which 
the  painter  can  follow.  The  ideal  end  of  painting  as  an 
Art,  and  that  of  the  Spenserian  imagination,  —  to  reveal 
beauty  in  perfect  form  and  color,  —  are  identical.  Of  all 
painters,  in  landscape  at  all  events,  Turner,  on  a  great 
scale,  and  old  David  Cox  on  a  less,  have  alone,  so  far  as  I 


88  TENNYSON   AND   HIS   TEACHERS. 

can  remember,  attempted  in  form  and  color  the  suggestive- 
ness  and  mystery  of  the  stimulative  imagination.  But 
here,  it  is  to  be  feared,  Poetry  might  step  in,  arrayed  in 
her  most  gorgeous  robes,  and  declare,  with  a  smile  of 
haughty  disdain,  that  Turner  and  Cox  merely  struggled 
into  her  empyreal  freedom  above  the  constraints  of  the 
inferior  Art,  and  that  the  imagination,  which  catches  a 
gleam  from  the  infinite,  and  transcends  any  definite  form 
of  color  to  be  rendered  by  human  hand,  is,  after  all,  the 
grander  of  the  two. 

The  description  of  the  palace  in  the  poem  we  have  been 
contemplating,  is  perhaps  suflScient  for  our  purpose.  But 
every  stanza  is  of  the  same  order.  A  few  of  them  I  cannot 
forbear  from  quoting. 

"  Full  of  great  rooms  and  small  the  palace  stood, 
All  various,  each  a  perfect  whole 
From  living  Nature,  fit  for  every  mood 
And  change  of  my  still  soul. 

For  some  were  hung  with  arras  green  and  blue, 

Showing  a  gaudy  summer-morn, 
Where  with  puff'd  cheek  the  belted  hunter  blew 

His  wreathed  bugle-horn. 

One  seem'd  all  dark  and  red  —  a  tract  of  sand, 

And  some  one  pacing  there  alone, 
Who  paced  forever  in  a  glimmering  land, 

Lit  with  a  low,  large  moon. 

One  show'd  an  iron  coast  and  angry  waves, 
You  seem'd  to  hear  them  climb  and  fall, 

And  roar  rock-thwarted  under  bellowing  caves, 
Beneath  the  windy  wall. 


TENNYSON   AND   HIS   TEACHERS.  89 

And  one,  a  full-fed  river  winding  slow 

By  herds  upon  an  endless  plain, 
The  ragged  rims  of  thunder  brooding  low, 

With  shadow-streaks  of  rain. 

And  one,  the  reapers  at  their  sultry  toil. 

In  front  they  bound  the  sheaves.     Behind 
Were  realms  of  upland,  prodigal  in  oil, 

And  hoary  to  the  wind. 

And  one,  a  foreground  black  with  stones  and  slags, 

Beyond,  a  line  of  heights,  and  higher 
All  barr'd  with  long  white  cloud  the  scornful  crags. 

And  highest,  snow  and  fire. 

And  one,  an  English  home — gray  twilight  poured 

On  dewy  pastures,  dewy  trees, 
Softer  than  sleep— all  things  in  order  stored, 

A  haunt  of  ancient  Peace. 


Or  sweet  Europa's  mantle  blew  unclasp'd, 
From  off  her  shoulder  backward  borne : 

From  one  hand  droop'd  a  crocus :  one  hand  grasp'd 
The  mild  bull's  golden  horn. 

Or  else  flush'd  Ganymede,  his  rosy  thigh 
Half-buried  in  the  Eagle's  down, 

Sole  as  a  flying  star  shot  through  the  sky- 
Above  the  pillar'd  town." 

I  doubt  whether  it  is  within  the  limit  of  possibility  to 
bestow  too  high  a  commendation  upon  these  delineations, 
unsurpassed  as  they  are  in  the  whole  range  of  art.  Each 
stanza  is  a  poem.     Each  stanza  exhibits  a   strength   and 

8* 


90  TENNYSON    AND   HIS    TEACHERS. 

calmness  of  imaginative  vision,  a  sense  of  symmetry  and 
proportion,  in  one  word  a  capacity  to  see  and  delineate 
the  Beautiful,  which  would  render  it,  if  found  separately, 
as  infallibly  demonstrative  of  supreme  poetic  genius.  A 
single  gem,  of  unparalleled  loveliness,  tells  of  the  one 
mine  in  all  the  world  where  it  can  have  been  dug.  Of 
the  mastery  of  the  English  language  which  concentrated 
so  many  complete  pictures  into  such  frames  it  is  needless 
to  speak.  But  how  distinctly  traceable  in  every  line  is 
the  hand  of  the  finishing  imagination !  What  can  you  add 
to  that  figure  of  Europa  ?  Her  mantle  is  unclasped  and 
borne  backward  from  her  shoulder.  The  crocus  droops 
from  one  hand  ;  the  other  grasps  the  horn  of  the  bull,  the 
horn  being  golden  and  the  bull  mild.  The  one  epithet 
which  might  be  regarded  as  a  signal  of  freedom  to  the 
imagination,  "sweet,"  hardly  releases  you  here,  for  you 
can  imagine  only  a  quiet,  contented,  hoping  smile.  This 
little  picture  has  always  seemed  to  me  to  reveal  the  genius 
of  Tennyson  to  the  very  life,  —  Tennyson,  his  mark. 

It  would  be  a  very  delightful  but  is  not  a  necessary  task, 
to  trace  the  imaginative  action,  of  which  I  have  said  so 
much,  through  all  the  poems  of  Tennyson,  whether  his 
earlier  or  his  later.  For  the  present  I  confine  myself 
to  the  former,  and  even  of  these  I  can  in  this  connection 
say  but  a  few  words.  Observe  how  the  poet  always  gazes 
face  to  face  upon  what  he  portrays,  how  distinctly  he  hears 
every  word  falling  from  the  lips  of  his  characters.  He 
never  slurs,  he  never  generalizes.  Is  he  in  his  idyllic  mood, 
wandering  by  the  brook  or  among  the  hay-cocks  ?  He  sees 
the  apple-blossom  as  it  sails  on  the  rill ;  the  garden  walk  is 
bordered  with  lilac ;  the  green  wicket  is  in  a  privet  hedge. 
He  lets  you  hear  the  very  words  of  the  simple,  kindly 
rustics,  and  you  see  the  flowers  plucked  for  the  wreath 


TENNYSON  AND  HIS  TEACHERS.       91 

to  bind  the  brow  of  the  little  child.  Is  it  of  affection  or 
passion,  in  the  depth  of  their  tenderness  or  the  might  of 
their  burning,  that  he  speaks  ?  He  shows  you  the  eyelid 
of  the  mother  quivering,  and  every  little  flutter,  of  love 
and  doubt,  in  the  breast  of  the  village  bride.  Or  the 
irresistible  emotion  reddens  over  cheek  and  brow,  like  a 
northern  morning,  and  the  inmost  secrets  of  the  spirit 
dawn  out  in  the  dark  of  the  hazel  eye.  He  seems  to  track 
the  blood  in  the  veins  as  it  courses  from  the  heart  to 
the  cheek.  The  bride  in  The  Lord  of  Burleigh  has  just 
heard  the  announcement,  that  the  landscape  painter  whom 
she  had  loved  is  a  great  and  wealthy  noble.  Tennyson 
does  not  say  how  she  was  impressed.  He  merely  looks  at 
her  and  reads  off  the  signs  on  her  face. 

"  All  at  once  the  color  flushes 

Her  sweet  face  from  brow  to  chin : 
As  it  were  with  shame  she  blushes, 
And  her  spirit  changed  within. 

Then  her  countenance  all  over 
Pale  again  as  death  did  prove." 

This  is  all.  You  hear,  in  a  little,  how  she  strove  against 
her  weakness,  and  addressed  herself  to  her  wifely  duties, 
but  of  her  feelings  at  the  time  you  hear  nothing.  The 
characters  in  which  nature  wrote  those  feelings  are  set 
before  the  eye ;  and  how  vivid,  how  profound  their  por- 
traiture, how  delicate  and  deep  their  pathos ! 

Tennyson's  diction  and  melody  are  in  perfect  harmony 
with  his  imaginative  faculty.  To  describe  his  command  of 
language,  by  any  ordinary  terms,  expressive  of  fluency  or 
force,  would  be  to  convey  an  idea  both  inadequate  and 
erroneous.      It  is  not  only  that  he  knows  every  word  in 


92  TENNYSON   AND    HIS    TEACHERS. 

the  language  suited  to  express  his  every  idea;  he  can  select 
with  the  ease  of  magic  the  word  that  of  all  others  is  best 
for  his  purpose :  nor  is  it  that  he  can  at  once  summon  to  his 
aid  the  best  word  the  language  affords ;  with  an  art  which 
Shakspeare  never  scrupled  to  apply,  though  in  our  day  it 
is  apt  to  be  counted  mere  Germanism  and  pronounced 
contrary  to  the  genius  of  the  language,  he  combines  old 
words  into  new  epithets,  he  daringly  mingles  old  colors  to 
bring  out  new  tints  that  never  were  on  sea  or  shore.  His 
words  gleam  like  pearls  and  opals,  like  rubies  and  emeralds. 
He  yokes  the  stern  vocables  of  the  English  tongue  to  the 
chariot  of  his  imagination,  and  they  become  gracefully  bril- 
liant as  the  leopards  of  Bacchus,  or  soft  as  the  Cytherean 
doves,  file  must  have  been  born  with  an  ear  for  verbal 
sounds,  an  instinctive  appreciation  of  the  beautiful  and  deli- 
cate in  words,  hardly  ever  equalled.  \  His  earliest  poems  are 
festoons  of  verbal  beauty,  which  He  seems  to  shake  sport- 
ively, as  if  he  loved  to  see  jewel  and  agate  and  almondine 
glittering  amid  tropic  flowers.  He  was  very  young  when 
he  published  the  Recollections  of  the  Arabian  Nights;  yet 
that  piece  displays  a  familiarity  with  the  most  remote  and 
costly  stores  of  the  English  language  not  exceeded  in  the 
same  space  by  Spenser.  If  these  expressions  seem  to  any 
extravagant,  I  would  beg  to  suggest  a  study  of  two  poems; 
—  I  might  name  twenty.  Consider  Eleanore  and  The 
Lotos  Eaters.  Both  these  poems  are  every  way  charac- 
teristic of  Tennyson,  and  illustrate  admirably  his  imagina- 
tive method.  I  regard  them,  in  respect  of  diction,  as  not 
only  justifying  every  word  I  have  said,  but  as  putting 
utterly  to  shame  my  attempts  to  convey  an  adequate 
impression  of  Tennyson's  power  over  words.  Here  I 
cannot  quote  single  verses;  for  there  are  no  degrees  in 
perfection ;  and  the  most  minute  acquaintance  with  these 


TENNYSON  AND  HIS  TEACHERS.       93 

poems  leaves  me  deliberately  unable  to  point  to  a  line  in 
either,  of  which  the  diction  is  not  absolutely  perfect.  In 
the  case  of  Eleanore  I  can  just  imagine  it  objected,  that 
the  ambition  of  the  diction  overleaps  itself  and  falls  on  the 
other  side,  that  the  skill  of  the  poet,  like  the  inimitable 
finish  of  Lewis  on  the  dress  of  an  uninteresting  woman,  is 
expended  so  lavishly  on  robes  and  jewelry,  that  the  serene 
imperial  Eleanore  fails  to  concentrate  our  regard.  But  of 
The  Lotos  Eaters,  this  cannot  be  even  argued.  As  you 
read  that  poem,  you  are  so  steeped  in  its  golden  langor, 
you  are  so  overpowered  by  the  trance-like  joy  of  its  calm, 
that  you  cannot  think  even  of  the  spell  that  binds  you. 
The  force  of  language  could  no  further  go. 

Tennyson's  choice  of  measure,  and  general  sense  of 
rhythm  and  melody,  correspond  accurately  with  the  order 
of  his  imagination,  and  the  pearly  delicacy  of  his  diction. 
It,  too,  generally  requires,  for  its  full  appreciation,  an  ear 
that  will  listen  carefully,  and  even  permit  itself  to  be 
tuned  to  the  melody.  There  is  rarely  that  instantaneous 
attractiveness,  which  a  well  known  measure,  handled  with 
any  novelty  or  skill,  is  sure  to  possess ;  an  attractiveness 
to  be  deemed  analogous  to  that  superficial  beauty,  which 
clearness  and  elegance  impart  to  prints  in  annuals,  and 
soft,  well  contrasted  lights  and  shades  to  pictures  generally. 
There  is  no  reliance  on  antithesis,  as  is  so  common  in  the 
smaller  lyrics  of  Byron.  There  is  no  courting  of  anape- 
stic  buoyancy,  or  voluptuous  sweetness,  as  in  the  lyrics 
of  Moore.  In  almost  every  case,  the  radical  metrical  foot 
is  the  iambus,  that  most  deeply  consistent  with  the  genius 
of  the  English  tongue,  but  that,  also,  affording  the  poet 
the  least  resource  in  dashing  turns  or  sounding  cadences, 
and  forcing  him  to  trust  most  exclusively  to  his  real  power, 
to  the  gold  seen  gleaming  beneath  the  pellucid  current  of 


91       TENNYSON  AND  HIS  TEACHERS. 

his  verse.  LocJcsley  Hall  is  a  magnificent  exception  to 
Tennyson's  general  habit,  its  trochaic  measure  being  su- 
perbly adapted  for  the  expression  of  passion,  and  itself 
being  incomparably  the  finest  of  trochaic  melody  in  the 
language.  But  though  Tennyson's  measures  are  generally 
iambic,  he  breathes  into  them  a  melodiousness  which  is 
new,  and  gives  them  forms  of  his  own.  The  stanza  of 
The  Palace  of  Art  is  quite  new,  and  it  is  only  by  degrees 
that  its  exquisite  adaptation  to  the  style  and  thought  of 
the  poem  is  perceived.  The  ear  instinctively  demands,  in 
the  second  and  fourth  lines,  a  body  of  sound  not  much  less 
than  that  of  the  first  and  third ;  but  in  Tennyson's  stanza, 
the  fall  is  complete ;  the  body  of  sound  in  the  second  and 
fourth  lines  is  not  nearly  sufficient  to  balance  that  in  the 
first  and  third ;  and  the  consequence  is,  that  the  ear  dwells 
on  the  alternate  lines,  especially  on  the  fourth,  stopping 
there  to  listen  to  the  whole  verse,  to  gather  up  its  whole 
sound  and  sense.  I  do  not  know  whether  Tennyson  ever 
contemplated  scientifically  the  effect  of  this.  I  should 
think  it  far  more  likely,  and  indicative  of  far  higher  genius, 
that  he  did  not.  But  it  appears  to  me  that  no  means  could 
be  conceived  for  setting  forth,  to  such  advantage,  those 
separate  pictures,  "  each  a  perfect  whole,"  which  constitute 
so  great  a  portion  of  the  poem.  Wherever  the  picture  to 
be  drawn  is  spread  over  several  stanzas,  or  the  same  precise 
strain  of  feeling  is  kept  up  for  so  long,  the  form  of  the 
verse  is  felt  to  be  by  no  means  equally  suitable,  and  the 
ear,  accustomed  to  the  deep  rest  of  the  full  stop  after  the 
short  line,  will  hardly  consent  merely  to  stop  a  moment  at 
a  comma,  and  then  hasten  to  the  succeeding  verse.  But 
it  is  a  poor  business  analyzing  verse  like  this,  or  attempting 
to  reduce  it  to  scientific  rules.  It  is  like  trying  to  convey 
an  idea  of  a  flower,  by  enumerating  its  stamens  and  tissues, 


TENNYSON    AND    HIS    TEACHERS.  05 

or  by  presenting  it,  dried  and  shrivelled,  with  its  name 
beside  it,  in  some  adust  herbarium :  instead  of  holding  it 
up  to  the  living  eye,  arrayed  in  that  dress  of  purple,  or 
blue,  or  scarlet,  which  God  taught  it  to  weave  for  itself  from 
the  sunbeams,  or  inhaling  that  fragrance,  which  eludes,  like 
a  spirit,  the  rude  touch  of  science.  Better  is  it,  in  thinking 
of  the  melodiousness  of  Tennyson's  poetry,  to  recall  those 
hours,  so  intensely,  so  serenely  happy,  when  gradually  the 
ear  came  under  its  spell:  when  the  miller's  daughters, 
and  gardener's  daughters,  first  glided  into  the  field  of 
vision,  to  tender,  mildly  cheerful  music ;  when  the  Dream 
of  Fair  Women,  and  The  Lotos  Eaters,  and  The  Palace 
of  Art,  almost  hushed  the  beatings  of  the  heart,  at  the 
flute-like  softness  and  dreamy  calm  of  their  melody ;  when 
the  tropic  lightnings  of  passion  first  flashed  amid  the 
thunder  of  Locksley  Hall;  or  when  the  great  autumnal 
sorrow  of  In  Memoriam,  voiced  itself  in  a  rhythm,  solemn 
and  majestic  as  the  roll  of  the  melancholy  main.  The 
melody  of  Tennyson's  poems  is  perhaps  more  peculiarly 
his  own  even  than  his  other  characteristics ;  it  is  still  more 
difficult  than  in  the  case  of  these,  to  find  its  prototype  in 
preceding  English  poetry. 

We  have  hitherto,  strictly  speaking,  considered  only  the 
methods  and  appliances  of  Tennyson's  genius.  His  form 
of  imaginative  exertion,  his  diction,  and  his  melody,  are 
perfectly  separable,  in  critical  consideration,  from  the  emo- 
tions he  portrays,  the  thought  he  utters,  or  the  new  aspects 
of  nature's  beauty  to  which  he  opens  our  eyes.  Expression 
is,  in  a  sense,  everything  in  poetry,  as  painting  is  id  a  sense 
everything  in  the  pictorial  Art :-  in  the  sense,  namely,  that, 
whatever  thought  and  feeling  may  be  exhibited,  without 
metrical  expression,  in  the  one,  or  pictorial  expression,  in 
the  other,  loses  the  distinctive  characteristic,  however  much 


96       TENNYSON  AND  HIS  TEACHERS. 

it  may  retain  of  the  general  character,  of  either.  Yet 
expression  can  never  be  all  in  all,  whether  in  painting  or  in 
poetry.  Some  association,  however  we  may  define  it,  with 
the  world  of  human  thought  and  feeling,  is  indispensable. 
The  perfect  tones  of  a  prism  will  never  be  to  man  as  the 
imperfect  tones  of  a  picture ;  and  the  pure  notes  of  music 
are  vacant  of  influence,  until,  by  combination  into  melodies, 
they  attain  the  power  of  touching  the  mystic  chords  of 
association.  Whatever  the  conditions  prescribed  by  the 
nature  of  each  Art,  there  is  no  Art  in  which  it  is  not  neces- 
sary that  there  be  a  something  related  to  its  expression  as 
substance  is  related  to  form.  Here  again,  the  genius  of 
metaphysics  beckons  us  to  answer  a  few  stiff  and  ancient 
questions,  touching  the  nature  of  those  truths,  of  experi- 
ence, of  feeling,  of  reason,  which  may  be  pronounced  neces- 
sary in  poetry.  "What,  asks  that  menacing  presence,  is 
the  connection  between  the  Good,  the  Beautiful,  and  the 
True  ?  Are  Science  and  Poetry  one,  or  are  they  different, 
and  how  ?  Happily  Poetry  has  not  the  unreasonable  habit 
of  that  beautiful  but  whimsical  lady,  the  Sphynx.  Poetry 
does  not  insist  upon  our  explaining  the  riddle  of  the  nature, 
or  any  other  riddle,  before  enjoying  the  benignity  of  her 
smile.  But  our  present  business  is  criticism,  and  a  word 
or  two,  as  to  the  relations  of  Poetry  and  Science,  may  ren- 
der us  important  assistance  as  we  proceed. 

Professor  Wilson  pronounced  Poetry  to  be  "the  true 
exhibition,  in  musical  and  metrical  speech,  of  the  thoughts 
of  humanity  when  colored  by  the  feelings,  throughout  the 
whole  range  of  the  physical,  moral,  intellectual,  and  spiritual 
regions  of  being."  As  a  definition  of  poetry,  this  might 
be  open  to  objection,  but  as  a  definition  of  poetry  by  Pro- 
fessor Wilson,  it  is  of  value.  Wilson's  scientific  capacity 
was  perhaps  as  feeble  as  his  dramatic.  But  he  was  the 
greatest  sympathetic  critic  that  ever  used  the  English  Ian- 


TENNYSON  AND  HIS  TEACHERS.      97 

guage,  the  man  most  thoroughly  capable,  through  delicacy, 
power,  and  range  of  sympathy,  to  discover  and  appreciate 
poetic  excellence.  Nor  was  he  ever  tempted,  by  over- 
refinement  of  sensibility,  or  sickly  admiration  for  any  par- 
ticular mannerism,  to  abandon  the  broad  canons  of  criticism 
which  base  themselves  on  deep  and  universal  laws  of  human 
nature.  He  is  pre-eminently  fitted  to  represent  the  culti- 
vated but  healthy  human  mind,  as  affected  by  poetry. 
Viewing  him  in  this  capacity,  importance  must  be  attached 
to  his  words.  When  thought  is  contrasted  with  feeling,  as 
he  contrasts  it,  it  must  have  reference  to  truth.  Thoughts 
without  any  substantial  basis  of  truth  are  valueless  or  incon- 
ceivable. And  Professor  Wilson's  words  clearly  indicate 
that,  in  regarding  poetry,  he  experienced  an  instinctive 
craving  for  this  substantial  truth,  whether  as  recorded  in 
experience  or  construed  to  reason. 

The  view  of  Goethe  and  his  school  in  Germany,  adopted 
by  Mr.  Carlyle,  touching  the  relation  between  the  True  and 
the  Beautiful,  between  Poetry  and  Science,  I  understand 
to  be,  that  Poetry,  in  its  true  essence  and  noblest  realiza- 
tion, presents  the  truths  of  reason  in  the  forms  of  sense. 
The  mere  expression  of  such  an  opinion  indicates  the  neces- 
sity felt  by  such  thinkers  as  Goethe  and  Carlyle  to  discover, 
in  the  last  resort,  some  intimate,  indissoluble  alliance  be- 
tween the  True  and  the  Beautiful. 

But  it  is  unnecessary  to  make  any  parade  of  authorities 
on  this  point.  The  right  doctrine  can  be  reached  without 
any  painful  consultation  of  Aristotle,  Bacon,  and  the  rest. 
When  understood  in  its  proper  sense,  it  will  be  universally 
conceded  as  an  axiom,  that  truth  is  inseparable  from  every 
sound  form  of  composition.  But  what  is  truth  ?  of  what 
does  it  consist  ?  It  may  all  be  classed  under  two  catego- 
ries, each  containing  two  divisions :  — » 

FIKST    SERIES.  9 


98  TENNYSON   AND   HIS    TEACHERS. 

1.  (a)  What  is;  (b)  What  may  supposably,  in  change  of 
time  or  condition,  be. 

2.  (a)  Hoio  what  exists  is ;  (b)  How  the  supposably  exist- 
ent would  be. 

All  Art  has,  as  its  subject  matter,  truth  of  the  first  cate- 
gory :  all  Science  truth  of  the  second. 

There  is  nothing  here  in  the  slightest  degree  obscure,  or 
difficult  of  comprehension.  Goethe  and  Carlyle,  in  recog- 
nizing the  essential  connection  between  poetry  and  form, 
lend  us  really  their  support ;  their  antithesis  between  truth 
of  reason  and  form  of  sense  can  alone  be  rightly  interpreted, 
in  accordance  with  our  categories ;  only  I  think  that,  by 
fairly  recognizing  truth  as  equally  independent  of  poetry 
and  science,  we  are  secured  from  certain  errors,  into  which 
a  definition  of  poetry  simply  as  the  truths  of  reason  in  the 
forms  of  sense  might  lead  us.  It  would  be  erroneous  to 
give  any  countenance  to  the  idea  that  poetry  receives  cer- 
tain truths  from  reason,  attained  by  the  method  of  logic, 
and  proceeds  to  clothe  them  in  the  forms  of  sense.  "We 
should  thus  find  ourselves  identifying  Art  with  allegory ; 
a  peril  not  altogether  escaped  in  the  poetry  of  Schiller, 
and  surely  affecting  the  rugged  truthfulness  of  Wilhelm 
Meister.  I  shall  not,  however,  enter  here  into  any  debate. 
Concluding  that  the  antithesis  suggested  by  Mr.  Carlyle  is 
the  key  to  the  whole  subject,  and  professing  merely  to 
interpret  and  formally  apply  it,  we  shall  find  the  division  I 
have  made  sufficient  for  the  classification  of  all  Art  and  all 
Science,  whether  real  or  ideal. 

Art,  then,  always  deals  with  what  is,  or  with  what  may 
be.  Its  postulate  is  that  nothing  is,  or  may  be  imagina- 
tively represented,  which  is  not  worthy  of  observation.  It 
is  divided  into  realistic  and  ideal.  Realistic  Art  concerns 
itself  with  what  is ;  its  subject  matter  is  the  now  existent 


TENNYSON   AND   HIS    TEACHERS.  99 

universe :  ideal  Art  concerns  itself  with  the  world  of  imag- 
ination ;  its  subject  matter  is  all  that  the  imaginative  faculty 
calls  up  in  vision,  looks  forward  to  in  hope,  or  combines  into 
new  creations.  The  ultimate  attainment  of  realistic  Art 
would  be,  by  all-embracing,  all-potent  observation,  by  all- 
penetrating,  all-compelling  imagination,  to  body  forth,  in 
form,  motion,  color,  the  existent  universe,  animate  and 
inanimate.  The  last  achievement  of  ideal  Art  would  be,  to 
represent,  not  in  theory  but  in  fact,  a  perfect  universe.  It 
would  set  before  us,  with  Plato,  the  world  of  the  idea, 
with  the  idea  at  last  perfectly  expressed  in  form;  it 
would  show  us  that  "type  of  perfect  in  the  mind,"  for 
which  Tennyson  looked  in  vain  in  nature ;  in  an  expressly 
Christian  scheme  of  things,  it  would  exhibit  humanity  re- 
adomed  in  its  paradisal  garments,  in  a  world  fitted  to  such 
a  race,  or  robed  in  a  purer  whiteness  than  that  of  Paradise, 
on  the  plains  of  heaven.  The  province  of  Art  is  thus 
shown  to  be  commensurate  with  the  powers  of  the  human 
intellect,  and  the  regions  of  the  finite. 

Turning  to  Science,  there  is  no  more  difficulty  in  dis- 
criminating between  real  and  ideal  Science,  than  between 
real  and  ideal  Art.  The  utmost  conceivable  perfection  of 
realistic  Science  would  be  formally  to  construct,  from  its 
elements,  the  whole  material  universe,  of  nature  and  of 
man,  —  to  trace,  in  all  their  operations,  the  laws  by  which 
it  consists.  Ideal  Science  is  not  so  familiar  to  our  concep- 
tions as  ideal  poetry.  But  if  we  do  concede  it  a  sphere, 
its  ultimate  achievement  is  definable  as  the  exhibition,  in 
its  forming  and  sustaining  laws,  of  possible  perfection.  A 
perfect  theory  of  Plato's  ideal  world,  a  perfect  theory  of 
man  and  nature  renewed  by  Christianity,  would  precisely 
answer  to  this. 

The  grand  antithesis  between  Art  and  Science  is  that  of 


100  TENNYSON   AND   HIS    TEACHERS. 

form  and  law,  of  result  and  cause,  of  representation  and 
dialectic,  of  the  visible  and  invisible.  Art  looks;  her 
guide,  from  star  to  star,  is  the  cherub  contemplation: 
Science  investigates.     Art  depicts ;  Science  records. 

This  distinction  is  available  for  important  practical  pur- 
poses. 

It  enables  us,  to  begin  with,  to  perceive  how  and  why  it 
is  that  Art  is  associated  inseparably  with  the  Beautiful, 
while  Science  has  no  essential  connection  with  beauty  what- 
ever. Science  deals  with  what  nature  does  not  show.  She 
lifts  the.  green  turf  of  the  mountain,  to  investigate  the 
strata ;  she  divides  the  ray  of  light,  to  examine  its  separate 
filaments  ;  she  lays  open  the  cheek  of  beauty,  to  trace  the 
course  of  the  arteries.  She  is  entirely  conversant  with 
those  processes  and  those  forms,  by  contrast  with  which 
nature  produces  her  final  effects  of  beauty.  Science,  there- 
fore, save  in  the  work  of  discovering  and  classifying  per- 
fected forms  hitherto  unobserved,  has  no  office  whatever  in 
connection  with  the  Beautiful.  But  Art  has  to  do  only 
with  what  is  seen,  whether  by  the  eye  of  sense  or  of  imag- 
ination. She  gazes  enraptured  on  the  dress  of  nature, 
intended  to  be  admired :  that  garment,  woven  by  the  hand 
of  God,  ineffable  in  its  beauty,  in  which  the  purple  of  night, 
dark  against  the  star-fires,  the  green  of  earth,  touched  with 
crimson  and  gold,  the  blue  of  ocean  wreathed  with  tinted 
foam,  the  azure  of  the  sky,  flushed  with  dawn  and  even, 
and  hung  with  broidered  vails  of  cloud,  combine  in  one 
picture  of  sublimity  and  loveliness,  over  which  the  angels 
clap  their  hands,  and  on  which  we  of  the  earth  can  never 
gaze  with  sufficient  wonder  and  earnestness.  All  that  Art 
can  see  of  the  untainted  workmanship  of  God  is  beautiful. 
Wherever  the  shadow  of  sin  has  come,  a  blight  has  passed 
over  beauty.     In  humanity,  in  world-history,  Art  does  not 


TENNYSON   AND    HIS    TEACHERS.  101 

find  all  beautiful.  But  beauty  is  bound  up  in  the  purpose 
of  the  ages  ;  the  Good,  the  True,  the  Beautiful  struggle  on 
together,  to  celestial  music,  through  the  night  of  time; 
with  every  new  throb  of  the  heart  of  mankind  towards  a 
higher  life  and  a  loftier  nobleness,  a  fresh  glory  and  love- 
liness passes,  as  it  were  a  blush,  along  its  countenance.  At 
the  meridian  splendor  of  this  loveliness,  ideal  Art  guesses 
and  gazes  from  afar.  And  thus  Art's  function,  whether  in 
the  real  or  the  ideal,  is  ever  with  the  Beautiful. 

But,  next,  does  not  our  antithesis  explain  the  fact  that, 
in  all  ages,  pleasure  has  been  associated  with  Art,  that  the 
poetic  nature  finds  delight  in  external  nature,  and  that  a 
magnificent,  rapturous  ease  is  the  mood  deemed  appropriate 
to  poetic  composition  ?  The  forms  of  God's  universe  are 
fitted,  with  sublime  beneficence,  to  impart  joy.  God  willed 
that  whatsoever  countenance,  of  man  or  angel,  unstained 
by  sin,  looked  upon  his  world,  should  break  into  a  smile. 
God  said  let  there  be  light;  and  morning  drawing  aside 
the  vail  of  night  will  ever  continue  the  emblem  of  joy, 
because  it  shows  us,  once  more,  that  world  which  then 
flashed  into  visibility  and  beauty.  The  fact  that  the  con- 
templation of  external  loveliness  is  productive  of  joy  cannot 
be  called  in  question ;  and  we  may  view  it  either  as  a  proof 
that  the  Creator  of  the  universe  is  good,  or  as  a  proof  that 
the  God  of  Christianity  is  the  God  of  Nature.  I  am  per- 
fectly assured  that  whosoever  has  spoken  of  the  exercise 
of  the  poetic  faculty,  whether  in  the  case  of  Milton,  Dante, 
or  Goethe,  as  something  arduous,  difficult,  painful,  has 
erred.  To  all  earnest  and  honest  labor  a  joy  is  annexed ; 
there  is  pleasure,  if  not  in  the  preliminary  toil,  at  least  in 
the  ultimate  discovery,  of  science :  but  in  true  poetic  com- 
position, the  joy  approaches  rapture.  The  fine  frenzy  that 
Shakspeare  saw  in  the  eye  of  the  poet  was  unquestionably 
9* 


102  TENNYSON   AND    HIS    TEACHERS. 

a  frenzy  of  joy.  De  Quincey,  in  his  own  fashion  of  flinging 
abroad,  with  princely  recklessness,  hints  that  lighten  over 
wide  regions  of  thought,  remarks  that  the  life  of  poetic 
enthusiasm,  which  Coleridge  led  during  his  youth,  unfitted 
him  for  the  sternness  of  life  and  made  him  an  easy  victim 
to  opium.  He  required,  says  De  Quincey,  finer  bread  than 
was  baked  with  wheat.  The  observation  is  pointedly  true 
in  the  case  of  Coleridge :  and  doubtless  the  irregular  lives 
of  poets,  and  their  inability  in  general  to  grapple  steadily 
with  the  difficulties  of  life,  are  to  a  great  extent  traceable 
to  the  insipidity  with  which  every  day  realities  must  present 
themselves,  after  the  rapturous  excitement  of  imaginative 
vision. 

Truth  then,  to  return,  is  of  the  essence  of  poetry  as  well 
as  of  science.  But  in  the  one  case,  the  truth  is  always 
enveloped  in  form ;  in  the  other  it  is  eliminated  from  form. 
Science  gives  you  truth  in  algebraic  formula ;  poetry  gives 
you  truth  in  the  dance  of  the  stars.  A  Newton  is  mighty 
in  the  exposition  of  law,  a  Shakspeare  in  the  exhibition  of 
fact,  of  human  and  physical  nature  as  actually  existing  or 
as  seen  under  the  revealing  idealization  of  his  imaginative 
genius.  An  Aristotle  applies  a  powerful  analysis  to  the 
laws  of  morals ;  a  Milton  exhibits  those  grand  revolutions, 
in  human  and  angelic  existence,  in  which  the  might  and 
grandeur  of  moral  law  have  been  displayed. 

But  it  is  necessary  to  guard  here  against  a  misapprehen- 
sion. We  are  so  apt  to  associate  everything  with  inference 
and  lesson,  that  when  we  talk  of  truth  in  Science  or  Art, 
we  almost  irresistibly  think  of  some  expressly  didactic 
moral.  But  it  hardly  admits  of  question,  that  neither 
Science  nor  Art  is  by  nature  bound  to  acknowledge  the 
justice  of  the  claim  thus  implied.  Truth  in  visibility  is  all 
Art  professes  to  give :  truth  in  law  all  we  can  require  of 


TENNYSON   AND   HIS   TEACHERS.  103 

Science.  Science  may  investigate  the  laws  of  cookery,  or 
those  of  the  heavenly  bodies :  and  her  dignity,  no  doubt, 
increases  as  she  ascends.  Art  may  delineate  the  wayside 
weeds,  or  pencil  out  the  lightest  bodyings  of  fancy,  —  the 
reveries  of  the  child,  the  dance  of  the  fairies;  she  may 
represent  also  the  mountains  that  steady  the  earth,  the 
armies  that  have  shaken  the  plains  of  heaven:  and  her 
greatness,  too,  increases  as  her  subjects  are  ennobled.  But 
as  to  express  moralizing,  Science  may  be  dumb  as  the 
pyramids,  and  Art  silent  as  the  dew. 

It  is  necessary,  also,  once  more  to  recollect  that  neither 
is  there  here  a  mathematical  line  of  demarcation.  Art  and 
science,  realism  and  idealism,  perpetually  mingle  in  the 
concrete  example. 

Tennyson's  right  to  a  place  among  the  really  great  poets 
of  the  human  race  is  vindicated  by  this  fact,  That  he  has 
looked,  as  a  great  man  might,  upon  what  is  most  distinc- 
tive in  the  age  in  which  he  writes,  and  that  he  has  bodied 
forth  the  result  with  marvellous  poetic  realization.  This  I 
proceed  briefly  to  establish. 

^One  good  example  may  at  times  convey,  expressly  or  by 
implication,  a  whole  argument.  I  choose  here  one  illustra- 
tion of  Tennyson's  truth-grasping  power,  which  seems  to 
me  to  necessitate  the  conclusion  that  he  is  a  great  poet,  in 
the  sense  of  seeing  and  poetically  embodying  great  truths. 
It  is  the  same  as  that  I  selected  as  a  perfectly  satisfactory 
illustration  of  his  peculiar  imaginative  mothod,  The  Palace 
of  Art.  When  we  contemplate  this  poem,  what  do  we 
behold  ?  We  see  a  human  being,  represented  by  the  soul 
of  the  poet,  separating  from  the  rest  of  the  world,  and 
going  to  dwell  in  a  palace  apart.  This  palace  is  gorgeously 
constructed.  Its  roofs  gleam  with  gold.  Its  courts  echo 
with  fountains.     A  torrent-bow  is  lit  up  from  the  edge  of 


104  TENNYSON   AND   HIS   TEACHERS. 

the  crag  on  which  it  is  built.  The  interior  is  adorned  with 
the  most  rich,  refined,  and  elaborate  magnificence.  The 
eye  can  rest  on  no  spot  from  which  there  does  not  come  an 
answering  beam  of  beauty.  In  the  towers  are  great  bells, 
moving  of  themselves  with  silver  sound.  Through  the 
painted  windows,  stream  the  lights,  rose,  amber,  emerald, 
blue.  Between  the  shining  Oriels,  the  royal  dais  is  placed, 
hung  round  with  the  paintings  of  wise  men,  and  there 
the  inmate  takes  her  throne,  to  sing  her  songs  in  solitary 
beatitude. 

"  No  nightingale  delighteth  to  prolong 
Her  low  preamble  all  alone, 
More  than  my  soul  to  hear  her  echo'd  song. 
Throb  through  the  ribbed  stone; 

Singing  and  murmuring  in  her  feastful  mirth, 

Joying  to  feel  herself  alive, 
Lord  over  Nature,  Lord  of  the  visible  earth, 

Lord  of  the  senses  five  ; 

Communing  with  herself: «  All  these  are  mine, 
And  let  the  world  have  peace  or  wars, 

'Tis  one  to  me.'     She  —  when  young  night  divL  * 
Crown'd  dying  day  with  stars, 

Making  sweet  close  of  his  delicious  toils — 

Lit  light  in  wreaths  and  anadems, 
And  pure  quintessences  of  precious  oils 

In  hollow'd  moons  of  gems, 

To  mimic  heaven ;  and  clapt  her  hands  and  crie.% 

1 I  marvel  if  my  still  delight 
In  this  great  house  so  royal-rich  and  wide, 

Be  flatter'd  to  the  height. 


TENNYSON  AND  HIS  TEACHERS.      105 

O,  all  things  fair  to  sate  my  various  eyes ! 

O,  shapes  and  hues  that  please  me  well  1 
O,  silent  faces  of  the  Great  and  Wise, 

My  Gods  with  whom  I  dwell ! 

O,  God-like  isolation  which  art  mine, 

I  can  but  count  thee  perfect  gain, 
What  time  I  watch  the  darkening  droves  of  swine 

That  range  on  yonder  plain ! 

In  filthy  sloughs  they  roll  a  prurient  skin, 
They  graze  and  wallow,  breed  and  sleep; 

And  oft  some  brainless  devil  enters  in, 
And  drives  them  to  the  deep.' 

Then  of  the  moral  instinct  would  she  prate, 

And  of  the  rising  from  the  dead, 
As  hers  by  right  of  full-accomplished  Fate ; 

And  at  the  last  she  said  : 

*  I  take  possession  of  man's  mind  and  deed. 

I  care  not  what  the  sects  may  brawl. 
I  sit  as  God,  holding  no  form  of  creed, 

But  contemplating  all.' "  * 

Thus  it  continues  for  three  years.  Then,  suddenly,  all  is 
changed.  The  proud  soul  is  smitten  from  the  height  of 
her  glory  into  sore  despair.  A  darkness  and  a  pestilence 
pass  over  the  beauty  with  which  she  is  surrounded.  She 
cannot  comprehend  how  the  woe  has  come,  but  her  palace 
is  now  an  abode  of  loathing  and  ghastliness. 

"  'What !  is  not  this  my  place  of  strength,'  she  said, 
1  My  spacious  mansion  built  for  me, 
Whereof  the  strong  foundation  stones  were  laid 
Since  my  first  memory  ? ' 

*  Quoted  from  the  tenth  edition. 


106  TENNYSON    AND   HIS    TEACHERS. 

But  in  dark  corners  of  her  palace  stood 
Uncertain  shapes ;  and  unawares 

On  white-eyed  phantasms  weeping  tears  of  blood, 
And  horrible  nightmares, 

And  hollow  shades  enclosing  hearts  of  flame, 
And,  with  dim  fretted  foreheads  all, 

On  corpses  three  months  old  at  noon  she  came, 
That  stood  against  the  wall. 


Back  on  herself  her  serpent  pride  had  curl'd. 
1  No  voice,'  she  shrieked  in  that  lone  hall, 

*  No  voice  breaks  through  the  stillness  of  the  world : 

One  deep,  deep  silence  all  I*" 

At  last  the  end  comes :  — 

"  She  howl'd  aloud,  '  I  am  on  fire  within. 
There  comes  no  murmur  of  reply. 
What  is  it  that  will  take  away  my  sin, 
And  save  me  lest  I  die  ? ' 

So  when  four  years  were  wholly  finished, 
She  threw  her  royal  robes  away. 

*  Make  me  a  cottage  in  the  vale/  she  said, 

*  Where  I  may  mourn  and  pray/  " 

In  all  this  —  in  the  whole  of  the  poem,  —  with  its  perfect 
symmetry,  and  that  elaborate  fullness  of  beauty  which 
isolated  quotations  so  defectively  represent  —  it  is  just 
possible  that  certain  persons  may  not  find  any  great  truth 
revealed.  Stated  in  so  many  words,  the  poem  does  not 
contain  a  single  didactic  lesson.  The  poet-nature  of  Tenny- 
son, instinct  with  an  unconscious  appreciation  of  the  essence 


TENNYSON  AND  HIS  TEACHERS.      107 

of  Art,  prevented  the  possibility  of  there  being  any  such. 
But  taking  the  poem  in  the  noble  characters  of  its  breath- 
ing form,  is  there  any  difficulty  in  knowing  what  it  means  ? 
Even  had  those  lines,  in  which  the  poet  explicitly  announces 
his  design,  been  absent,  the  significance  would  have  been 
perfectly  clear.  But  those  introductory  lines,  and  the 
name  of  the  poem,  leave  one  and  only  one  possibility  open 
for  mistake,  —  incapacity  to  comprehend  or  estimate  the 
truth  embodied.  That  truth  is  very  ancient,  if  not  in 
didactic  expression,  at  least  in  historical  manifestation :  but 
as  proclaimed  by  Tennyson,  it  may  lay  claim  to  a  high 
originality.  The  right  is  always  original;  if  we  embrace 
in  the  term  right,  seasonableness  of  occasion,  verity  of 
doctrine,  and  perfect  execution.  The  truth  embodied  in 
The  Palace  of  Art  has  the  infallible  mark  of  originality, 
that  it  was  specially  called  forth  by  the  requirements  of  the 
time.  In  itself,  besides,  it  is  of  so  refined  and  exalted  a 
nature,  that  it  never  can  become  commonplace.  It  is 
simply  this,  That  Art  can  never  be  religion,  that  man  can 
never  live  nobly  all  for  himself,  that  the  supremacy  of 
intellectual  culture,  ministered  to  by  all  the  beauty  and 
intelligence  of  the  world,  is  not  so  excellent  as  the  lowly 
self-sacrifice  of  daily  life.  It  is,  that  there  are  abysmal 
deeps  of  personality,  in  which  slumber  earthquakes,  to  con- 
vulse the  soul  despite  of  all  the  azure  smiling  of  beauty ; 
and  that  all  the  lamps  which  man  can  kindle  here,  to  make 
a  heaven  for  himself,  will  be  but  a  vain  mimicry  of  real 
felicity.  When  we  consider  that  Tennyson's  poems  gen- 
erally, and  this  poem  in  particular,  teem  with  unmistakeable 
evidence  that  he  has  drunk,  perhaps  more  deeply  than  any 
other  poet,  at  the  fountains  of  Art ;  when  we  reflect  that 
the  influence  of  Goethe  upon  the  development  of  his  genius 
has  been  profound  and  pervasive ;  and  when  we  remember 


108  TENNYSON    AND    HIS    TEACHERS. 

that  the  most  refined  and  plausible  delusion  of  the  age, 
presented  in  many  forms,  is  radically  this  of  putting  culture 
for  godliness,  we  are  shut  up  to  the  conclusion  that  the 
writer  is  original  and  powerful,  and  that  the  truth  he  prac- 
tically proclaims  is  substantial  and  important.  I  should 
hold  it,  too,  in  the  highest  degree  dishonoring  to  Tennyson, 
to  imagine,  that  he  exhibited  this  truth  merely  as  a  poetical 
artist,  that  he  chose  it  for  its  literary  capabilities.  In  no 
case  does  our  great  poet  protrude  his  religion;  but  his 
moral  tone  is  as  pure  as  Milton's ;  and  In  Memoriam 
contains  numerous  passages,  indicative  of  a  deep  and  medi- 
tative acquaintance  with  the  highest  questions  of  religion, 
and  revealing  the  heaven-light  of  Christianity  plainly  irra- 
diating the  moralities  of  earth.  In  The  Palace  of  Art, 
let  it  not  be  questioned,  Tennyson's  grand  intent  was,  to 
exhibit  the  ghastly  isolation  of  mere  individual  culture,  the 
hollowness  of  self-worship  (or  that  reflected  self-worship 
which  in  "the  Great  and  Wise"  finds  "Gods,")  in  contrast, 
not  didactically  unfolded  but  poetically  suggested,  with  the 
household  sanctities,  the  simple  joys,  the  home-love,  the 
heaven-love,  the  ancient,  motherly  smile,  of  Christianity. 
Of  the  imaginative  power  with  which  the  great  truth  of 
the  poem  is  exhibited,  it  is  unnecessary,  after  what  has 
been  said,  to  make  any  remark.  Suffice  it  to  say,  that, 
after  having  as  it  were  kept  this  poem  before  my  mind's 
eye  for  many  years,  I  still  gaze  in  fresh  wonder  on  its 
marvellous  poetical  perfections,  combining  towards  the  en- 
forcement of  one  great  truth. 

Only  a  great  poet  could  have  composed  The  Palace 
of  Art.  I  do  not,  therefore,  deem  it  absolutely  necessary 
to/fclte  any  other  instance,  from  the  poems  of  Tennyson,  of 
the  combination  of  strictly  intellectual  with  strictly  poetic 
power.     But  I  cannot  forbear  making  a  reference  to  The 


TENNYSON  AND  HIS  TEACHERS.      109 

Tico  Voices.  This  poem  is  perhaps  unique.  It  is  in  the 
highest  sense  philosophic,  nay,  metaphysical,  throughout: 
yet  no  lyrical  trill  of  undiluted  melody,  no  lilt  sung  by 
village  maiden,  was  ever  more  purely  and  entirely  poetical. 
The  subject  of  the  piece  is  that  riddle  of  the  painful  earth, 
of  which  we  hear  in  The  Palace  of  Art.  The  argument 
on  the  one  side  is,  that  it  were  better  to  curse  God  and 
die ;  on  the  other,  that  it  were  better  not  to  do  so.  The 
force  and  acuteness  of  the  reasoning  would  be  sufficient  to 
fit  out  a  powerful  and  original  dissertation  in  metaphysics. 
But  does  the  poet  stumble  on  syllogism,  or  glide  out  of  the 
form  of  poetic  Art,  into  the  analysis  of  metrical  Science  ? 
By  no  means.  The  poem  is  a  study  of  the  richest  poetry, 
from  the  consistency  with  which  nature  sustains  the  argu- 
ment on  either  side.  If  sorrow  is  expressed,  it  is  less  in 
human  accents  than  in  the  tears  of  nature ;  morning  weep- 
ing in  her  still  place,  and  the  daisy  fading  away  in  death. 
If  joy  is  described,  it  is  written  in  the  calm  light  of  a 
Sabbath  morn,  and  in  the  flowers  hiding  the  grass.  If  doubt, 
disappointed  hope,  vain  aspiration,  are  shadowed  forth, 
they  are  emblemed  by  the  mist  of  the  hills,  and  the  crags 
momentarily  seen  and  then  hidden  behind  its  wreathing 
folds.  If  courage  and  resolution  are  the  theme,  we  see  the 
flashing  of  the  battle  in  the  distance,  and  mark  the  gleam 
on  the  face  of  the  dying  warrior  as  he  watches  the  last 
victorious  charge.  Such  knowledge  of  nature's  language, 
so  true,  so  deep,  so  varied,  never  belonged  but  to  the  born, 
the  master  poet.  Readers  who  are  novices  in  this  language, 
who  have  not  sympathetically  studied  in  the  mighty  volume 
of  nature,  find  the  poem  obscure.  The  express  declarations 
of  didactic  composition,  the  exposed  links  of  science,  they 
miss.  Such  the  poetic  instinct  sternly  denies  them.  But 
when  the  poem  is  read  poetically,  it  beams  with  light. 

FIRST   SERIES.  10 


:110  TENNYSON   AND    HIS    TEACHERS. 

Truth,  says  the  scientific  skeptic,  is  -unattainable.  That  is 
a  simple  fact,  simply  stated,  and  its  accompaniment  may 
be  either  irony  or  whatever  else  of  a  prosaic  nature  will 
suit.  The  poet- skeptic  states  the  same  fact,  and  likewise 
accompanies  it  with  delicate  irony.  But  you  have  a  series 
of  views,  intelligible  or  unintelligible,  instead  of  a  state- 
ment :  — 

"  Cry,  faint  not :  either  Truth  is  born 
Beyond  the  polar  gleam  forlorn, 
Or  in  the  gateways  of  the  morn. 

Cry,  faint  not,  climb :  the  summits  slope 
Beyond  the  furthest  flights  of  hope, 
Wrapt  in  dense  clouds  from  base  to  cope. 

Sometimes  a  little  corner  shines, 

As  over  rainy  mist  inclines 

A  gleaming  crag  with  belts  of  pines. 

I  will  go  forward,  sayest  thou, 
I  shall  not  fail  to  find  her  now. 
Look  up,  the  fold  is  on  her  brow. 

If  straight  thy  track,  or  if  oblique, 

Thou  know'st  not.     Shadows  thou  dost  strike, 

Embracing  cloud,  Ixion-like." 

Truth,  answers  the  scientific  believer,  may  be  difficult  to 
define  in  the  abstract ;  but  I  must  credit  the  nobleness  of 
the  great  believers  and  actors  of  human  history.  The  poet- 
believer  answers  thus : — 

"  I  cannot  hide  that  some  have  striven, 
Achieving  calm,  to  whom  was  given 
The  joy  that  mixes  man  with  heaven* 


TENNYSON  AND  HIS  TEACHERS.      Ill 

Who,  rowing  hard  against  the  stream, 
Saw  distant  gates  of  Eden  gleam, 
And  did  not  dream  it  was  a  dream , 

But  heard,  by  secret  transport  led, 
Even  in  the  charnels  of  the  dead, 
The  murmur  of  the  fountain-head  — 

Which  did  accomplish  their  desire, 
Bore  and  forbore,  and  did  not  tire, 
Like  Stephen,  an  unquenched  fire. 

He  heeded  not  reviling  tones, 

Nor  sold  his  heart  to  idle  moans, 

Though  cursed  and  scorned,  and  bruised  with  stones : 

But  looking  upward,  full  of  grace, 
He  pray'd,  and  from  a  happy  place, 
God's  glory  smote  him  on  the  face." 

The  conclusion  of  the  poem  is  remarkable,  both  for  the 
perfection  of  its  poetical  form  and  for  the  depth  of  its  sig- 
nificance. The  argument  had  not  taken  a  wide  range.  The 
first  voice  had  sunk  into  silence,  merely  from  its  inability  to 
prove  a  universal  negative.  No  recourse  had  been  had,  in 
opposing  it,  to  the  promised  glories  of  Christianity.  But 
now  the  light  of  dawn  breaks  ruddy  along  the  whole  horizon. 
It  is  the  Sabbath  morn,  and  men  wend  to  the  house  of  God, 
passing  by  the  graves  without  a  sigh.  The  hidden  hope  of 
the  world,  the  millennial  and  celestial  expectations  of  man- 
kind, are  emblemed  in  that  house  into  which  they  enter. 
Great  in  thought  and  marvellous  in  poetry,  this  piece  might 
alone  sustain  a  reputation. 

So  much  for  separate  poems.  Tennyson  is  great  like- 
wise in  isolated  gleams  of  thought. 

I  said  that  the  real  and  the  ideal  are  not  always  separated 


112      TENNYSON  AND  HIS  TEACHERS. 

by  any  poet.  I  may  add  that  the  poetic  and  the  scientific 
modes  of  thought  and  expression  are  not  always  kept  dis- 
tinct. Tennyson,  however,  remains  singularly  true  to  the 
character  of  a  poet,  seeming  to  have  truth  revealed  to  him 
in  figure  and  impersonation  while  others  reach  it  only  by 
the  chain  of  logical  sequence.  And  there  are  verses  of  his 
which  compress  into  their  limits  the  essential  characteristics 
of  the  national  life  of  Europe  for  a  hundred  years. 

"  The  people  here,  a  beast  of  burden  slow, 

Toil'd  onward,  prick'd  with  goads  and  stings , 
Here  play'd  a  tiger,  rolling  to  and  fro 
The  heads  and  crowns  of  kings ; 

Here  rose  an  athlete,  strong  to  break  or  bind 

All  force  in  bonds  that  might  endure, 
And  here  once  more  like  some  sick  man  declined 

And  trusted  any  cure." 

Could  Count  de  Montalembert  convey,  in  any  number 
of  volumes,  a  more  accurate  account  of  "the  state  of 
society  in  France,"  before  and  during  the  first  Revolution, 
than  is  contained  in  that  first  verse  ? 

Slowly  comes  a  hungry  people,  as  a  lion,  creeping  nigher, 
Glares  at  one  that  nods  and  winks  behind  a  slowly-dying  fire." 

What  a  picture  is  this  of  Feudalism  settling  to  its  last 
sleep,  with  Freedom  advancing  upon  it !  Or  of  aristoc- 
racies, that  nod  and  wink  in  the  waning  light  of  their 
heraldic  honors,  with  the  grand  roar  of  the  democracy 
beginning  to  be  heard ! 

"  All  the  past  of  Time  reveals 
A  bridal  dawn  of  thunder-peals, 
Whenever  Thought  hath  wedded  Fact." 


TENNYSON   AND    HIS   TEACHERS.  113 

This  is  a  magnificent  poetic  embodiment  of  one  of  the 
most  important  and  mysterious  facts  in  philosophic  history. 
But  it  would  be  absurd  to  attempt  an  exhibition  of  such 
passages  as  might,  even  with  approximate  completeness, 
illustrate  Tennyson's  power  as  a  poetic  thinker.  The  per- 
plexities, the  longings,  the  fitful  gleams  of  hope,  the  ten- 
dency to  lapse  into  ennui  or  despair,  characteristic  of  the 
time,  are  all  sympathetically  reflected  in  his  verse,  shadowed 
or  brightened  by  his  supreme  imagination.  In  The  Lotos 
Eaters,  there  are  glimpses  into  the  mysteries  of  human 
destiny,  penetrating  perhaps  as  far  as  human  eye  can  go. 
I  confess  I  could  have  wished,  although  I  consider  the 
poem  to  possess  a  perfection  defying  any  attempt  at  esti- 
mate, to  have  seen  the  atmosphere  of  Epicurean  repose 
over  the  heads  of  the  Lotos  Eaters  shaken  by  the  thun- 
der of  some  higher  truth,  —  by  the  tumult  of  passionate, 
acting  men,  by  the  roar  of  battle ;  and  I  am  assured  that 
Tennyson  could  have  effected  this,  without  any  serious  dam- 
age to  the  preceding  impression.  But  it  has  been  hinted 
that  the  poet's  sympathy  with  the  joy  of  calm  is  somewhat 
more  than  healthy;  and  he  has  certainly  succeeded  in 
setting  before  us  a  trance  of  intellectual  and  sensuous  peace, 
in  comparison  of  which  all  other  paintings  of  calm,  whether 
with  pen  or  brush,  pass  at  once  out  of  calculation. 

I  might  enlarge  indefinitely  upon  the  order  of  subjects 
which  Tennyson  delights  to  handle,  but  a  critique  need  not 
be  an  inventory,  and  I  must  hasten  to  a  conclusion.  One 
word,  however,  of  those  idyllic  picturings,  which  form  so 
remarkable  a  portion  of  his  works.  These  have  no  parallels 
in  the  language,  if  in  any  language.  The  pastorals  of  the 
Pope  and  Dry  den  school  are  not  to  be  named  beside  them. 
Wordsworth's  "  solemn-thoughted  idyl,"  as  Mrs.  Barrett 
Browning,  with  a  sincerity  of  compliment  which  from  her 
10* 


114  TENNYSON   AND    HIS   TEACHERS. 

mind  at  least  dismissed  all  idea  of  suppressed  irony,  bears 
the  comparison  better,  yet  not  well.  Tennyson's  coloring 
is  of  a  mellowness  and  glow,  of  which  Wordsworth  never 
gives  a  suggestion.  Tennyson  depicts  passion  with  a 
pencil  of  fire,  vivid,  tender,  true,  as  life :  Wordsworth 
knew  only  the  loves  of  the  flowers,  and  even  Wilson,  in 
his  elaborate  apology,  concedes  that  he  wanted  strength 
and  vividness  of  diction.  One  finds  himself  utterly  at 
a  loss  for  expressions  to  convey  the  idea  of  sylvan  loveli- 
ness, of  tender,  vernal  gaiety,  of  gentleness  in  emotion  and 
simplicity  in  thought,  derived  from  such  idyls  as  The 
Gardener's  Daughter  or  The  Brook.  They  make  you 
think  of  sunbeams  wandering  among  roses  and  lilies,  of 
light  streaming  silently  through  delicate  foliage,  turning 
all  its  green  to  gold,  of  the  prattling  of  children  by  sunny 
rills,  of  the  tears  and  smiles  of  whispering  lovers.  They, 
too,  are,  of  course,  ideal ;  though  in  a  very  different  way 
from  the  old  pastoral.  The  miller's  daughter  must  have 
had  her  gleaming  beauty  somewhat  dimmed  by  the  ad- 
hesion of  that  floating  meal  to  her  hair  and  dress,  and 
there  can  be  no  reasonable  doubt  that,  when  Eustace  and 
his  friend  visited  the  real  gardener's  daughter,  they  found 
her  seated  on  the  hack-log  peeling  potatoes.  If  the  shep- 
herdesses of  the  old  pastoral  were  court  ladies  or  Grecian 
Nymphs,  the  peasant  girls  of  Tennyson  are  exquisitely 
refined  English  ladies.  But  this  does  not  affect  the  inner 
truth  of  the  portraiture,  —  since  village  girls  and  titled 
ladies  love  very  much  alike,  —  or  do  more  than  pleasantly 
enhance  our  sympathy  with  the  emotions  delineated. 

As  the  poet  of  a  period  of  unparalleled  civilization, 
Tennyson  occasionally  reflects  a  mood,  differing,  in  a  j^ecu- 
liar  and  remarkable  way,  from  any  of  the  moods  of  pas- 
sion.    Not  a  few  of  his  poems  suggest  a  time  of  wearied 


TENNYSON  AND  HIS  TEACHERS.      115 

emotion  and  jaded  sympathy,  when  passion,  as  it  throbs  in 
human  breasts,  is  looked  upon  for  its  artistic  effects,  and 
contemplated  in  unparticipating,  unimpassioned  admiration. 
Civilization  lies  languid  on  her  noonday  couch,  oppressed 
with  the  weight  of  her  own  crown,  faint  in  the  sun  of  her 
own  prosperity.  To  a  biographer  of  Tennyson,  this  char- 
acteristic of  his  poetry  would  be  very  suggestive,  and  it 
must  have  struck  Mrs.  Barrett  Browning  as  distinctive 
when  she  described  that  poetry  in  the  words  "  enchanted 
reverie."  I  could  scarce  define  the  cause,  but  The  Day 
Dream  is  always  associated  in  my  mind  with  this  general 
impression. 

The  greatest  poem,  all  things  considered,  that  Tennyson 
ever  wrote,  is  In  Memoriam.  Its  name  indicates  one  of 
the  most  difficult  efforts  which  can  be  made  in  literature. 
It  aims  at  embalming  a  private  sorrow  for  everlasting 
remembrance,  at  rendering  a  personal  grief  generally  and 
immortally  interesting.  The  set  eye  and  marble  brow  of 
stoicism  would  cast  back  human  sympathy;  the  broken 
accents  and  convulsive  weeping  of  individual  afiliction 
would  awaken  no  nobler  emotion  than  mere  pity :  it  was 
sorrow  in  a  calm  and  stately  attitude,  robed  in  angel-like 
beauty,  though  retaining  a  look  of  earnest,  endless  sadness, 
that  would  draw  generation  after  generation  to  the  house 
of  mourning.  No  poet,  save  one  possessed  not  only  of 
commanding  genius  but  of  peculiar  qualifications  for  the 
task,  could  have  attempted  to  delineate  a  sorrow  like  this. 
The  genius  of  Tennyson  found  in  the  work  its  precise  and 
most  congenial  employment ;  and  the  result  is  surely  the 
finest  elegaic  poem  in  the  world. 

In  whatever  aspect  we  view  it,  by  whatever  test  we  try 
it,  this  poem  is  great,  is  wonderful.  Very  absurdly  did 
those  critics  talk,  who  spoke  of  the  grief  it  contained  as  not 


116  TENNYSON   AND    HIS    TEACHERS. 

very  strong,  perhaps  not  quite  sincere,  because  it  was  so 
elaborately  sung,  and  dwelt  upon  so  long.  They  utterly 
misconceived  the  nature  of  that  grief.  They  applied  a 
general  and  commonplace  rule  to  an  altogether  exceptional 
instance;  an  instance  which  might  give  new  canons  to 
criticism,  but  which  might  well  perplex  the  old  critics. 
The  shadow  of  death  had  fallen  between  two  spirits,  knit 
together  in  close  and  noble  friendship.  That  friendship 
had  depended  for  its  endurance  on  the  community  of  lofty 
and  immortal  sympathies,  of  great  thoughts,  of  pure  and 
earnest  affections.  It  was  beyond  the  power  of  death  to 
bring  it  to  a  termination.  Death  could  only  cast  a  vail  of 
shadow  between  the  two  friends,  and  leave  the  one  still  on 
the  earthward  side  to  endeavor  to  pierce  its  obscurity,  to 
hope  for  the  day  of  its  removal.  It  was  rather  a  solemnity, 
a  stillness,  a  composed  and  majestic  mournfulness,  that  was 
cast  over  the  life  of  Tennyson,  than  a  darkening,  over- 
powering distress.  It  was  the  silence  and  sadness  of  Au- 
tumn enveloping  all  the  glories  of  summer;  it  was  the 
melancholy  of  that  aspect  of  nature,  perhaps  the  loveliest 
of  all,  when  the  year  first  knows  the  approach  of  winter, 
and  welcomes  it  with  a  resigned  yet  mournful  smile.  The 
shadow  fell  everywhere.  Amid  all  the  groups  of  living 
men,  amid  all  the  forms  of  external  nature,  there  was  still 
its  presence,  and  into  all  the  regions  of  thought  and  feel- 
ing it  came.  Everywhere  it  brought  its  solemn  sadness : 
only,  on  the  skies  of  the  future,  like  the  shadow  of  the 
earth  cast  up  towards  immensity,  it  seemed  to  kindle 
brighter  lights  as  it  were  stars.  The  maiden  combing  her 
golden  hair,  in  expectation  of  her  lover,  whose  steps  will 
not  be  heard  that  evening,  or  at  all  again,  at  the  door,  the 
bride  leaving  her  father's  house,  the  wife  whose  husband 
lives  apart  from  her  sympathy,  in  high  and  remote  regions 


TENNYSON   AND    HIS   TEACHERS.  117 

of  thought,  the  boy  friends  of  the  village  green  whose 
paths  in  after  life  lie  far  asunder,  —  these  all  move  in  the 
procession  of  the  poem,  passing  through  the  shadow  of  its 
sorrow.  Nature,  too,  must  mourn  with  the  poet,  as  Shelley- 
saw  her  mourning  by  the  bier  of  Adonais.  The  ocean  must 
sink  into  calm  around  the  coming  corpse;  the  gorgeous 
gloom  of  evening  must  shroud  it ;  and  all  the  tears  of 
morning  must  fall  over  it.  Into  the  world  of  thought  and 
meditation,  the  same  solemn  influence  comes.  The  greatest 
questions  on  which  the  human  mind  can  be  engaged, 
questions  relating  to  the  being  of  God,  to  the  immortality 
of  the  soul,  to  the  limits  of  knowledge,  to  the  nature  and 
conditions  of  future  existence,  all  of  which  arise  naturally 
before  a  mind  ever  looking  beyond  the  bourne  for  the  face 
of  a  friend,  present  themselves  to  the  mourner,  if  perchance 
he  may  find  any  solace  or  enlightenment  in  them.  From 
the  simplest  scenes  of  domestic  life  Tennyson  has  ascended 
into  the  rare  atmosphere  of  metaphysics,  and  from  those 
heights  of  contemplation  where  he  so  well  can  tread,  sees  the 
shadow  of  his  sorrow  falling  over  the  filmy  clouds.  Nor  is 
this  all.  The  shadow  of  that  sorrow  fell  everywhere,  but, 
as  the  poet  himself  tells  us,  it  was  a  shadow  glory-crowned. 
Death  at  times  takes  up  the  harp  of  life,  as  love  did  in  one 
of  Tennyson's  earlier  poems,  and  draws  from  it  grand  and 
inspiring  music.  The  mighty  hopes  that  make  us  men,  the 
future  glories  of  humanity,  the  social  joys  and  tendernesses 
which  even  on  earth  shed  a  softening  radiance  over  settled 
sorrow,  the  encouragement  which  a  noble  heart  finds  in 
dwelling  on  a  life  honorably  finished,  in  listening  to  the 
earnest  voices  of  the  dead,  all  mingle  in  the  lofty  strain. 
So  perfect  is  the  unity,  so  mighty  the  sweep  of  this  poem  : 
what  more  could  elegaic  poetry  be  ? 

The  measure  adopted  by  Tennyson  for  In  Memoriam 


118  TENNYSON    AND   HIS    TEACHERS. 

was  almost  new  to  the  English  language,  and  it  has  none 
of  that  sweetness  or  ring  which  at  first  take  the  ear.  But, 
for  its  subject,  it  is  perfectly  adapted.  The  melancholy  of 
the  poet  seeks  no  sudden  changes  or  excitements;  it  is 
deep,  solemn,  still ;  and  the  sameliness  of  the  melody,  its 
majestic  uniformity,  its  calm  iEolian  flow,  correspond  ex- 
actly with  the  theme.  Yet  amid  its  stately  uniformity,  there 
is  sufficient  variation  to  prevent  any  disagreeable  monotony. 
Now,  in  its  calm,  dream-like  harmony,  it  seems,  as  it  were, 
to  give  voice  to  the  silent  gaze  with  which  we  look  into  the 
eyes  of  Mary  looking  upon  Christ ;  now  it  is  deep,  solemn, 
organ-toned,  "  Ionian  music  "  measuring  out  the  steps  of 
Time  —  the  shocks  of  Chance  —  the  blows  of  Death ;  and 
yet  again  it  takes  up  a  trumpet  note,  and  our  hearts  leap  as 
it  bids  the  wild  bells  ring  out  to  the  wild  sky. 

It  will  be  fitting  to  add  a  few  passages  from  In  Memo- 
riam,  illustrative  of  the  varying  subjects  which  the  poet 
treats,  and  the  mode  in  which  he  adapts  his  delineation 
and  his  harmony  to  each.  Let  us  glance,  first,  into  one 
or  two  of  those  domestic  scenes  into  which  falls  the  light 
of  sorrowing  love. 

"  Could  we  forget  the  widow'd  hour 
And  look  on  spirits  breathed  away, 
As  on  a  maiden  in  the  day 
When  first  she  wears  her  orange  flower ! 

When  crown'd  with  blessing  she  doth  rise 
To  take  her  latest  leave  of  home, 
And  hopes  and  light  regrets  that  come 

Make  April  of  her  tender  eyes ; 

And  doubtful  joys  the  father  move, 

And  tears  are  on  the  mother's  face, 

As  parting  with  a  long  embrace 
She  enters  other  realms  of  love ; 


TENNYSON  AND  HIS  TEACHERS.      119 

Her  office  there  to  rear,  to  teach, 

Becoming  as  is  meet  and  fit 

A  link  among  the  days,  to  knit 
The  generations  each  with  each ; 

And,  doubtless,  unto  thee  is  given 

A  life  that  bears  immortal  fruit 
In  such  great  offices  as  suit 

The  full-grown  energies  of  heaven. 

Ay  me,  the  difference  I  discern ! 
How  often  shall  her  old  fireside 
Be  cheered  with  tidings  of  the  bride, 

How  often  she  herself  return, 

And  tell  them  all  they  would  have  told, 
And  bring  her  babe,  and  make  her  boast, 
Till  even  those  that  miss'd  her  most, 

Shall  count  new  things  as  dear  as  old  ? 

But  thou  and  I  have  shaken  hands, 

Till  growing  winters  lay  me  low ; 

My  paths  are  in  the  fields  I  know, 
And  thine  in  undiscover'd  lands." 

Of  a  somewhat  different  kind,  but  from  the  same  class  of 
incident,  is  the  following : — 

"  Dost  thou  look  back  on  what  hath  been, 
As  some  divinely  gifted  man, 
Whose  life  in  low  estate  began 
And  on  a  simple  village  green ; 

Who  breaks  his  birth's  invidious  bar, 
And  grasps  the  skirts  of  happy  chance, 
And  breasts  the  blows  of  circumstance, 

And  grapples  with  his  evil  star ; 


120  TENNYSON   AND    HIS   TEACHERS 

Who  makes  by  force  his  merit  known, 
And  lives  to  clutch  the  golden  keys, 
To  mould  a  mighty  state's  decrees, 

And  shape  the  whisper  of  the  throne  ; 

And  moving  up  from  high  to  higher, 
Becomes  on  Fortune's  crowning  slope 
The  pillar  of  a  people's  hope, 

The  centre  of  a  world's  desire ; 

Yet  feels,  as  in  a  pensive  dream, 
When  all  his  active  powers  are  still, 
A  distant  dearness  in  the  hill, 

A  sacred  sweetness  in  the  stream, 

The  limit  of  his  narrower  fate, 
While  yet  beside  its  vocal  springs 
He  play'd  at  counsellors  and  kings, 

With  one  that  was  his  earliest  mate ; 

Who  ploughs  with  pain  his  native  lea, 
And  reaps  the  labor  of  his  hands, 
Or,  in  the  furrow  musing  stands ; 

*  Does  my  old  friend  remember  me? ,w 

Once  more :  — 

**  Two  partners  of  a  married  life— » 

I  looked  on  these  and  thought  of  thee 
In  vastness  and  in  mystery, 
And  of  my  spirit  as  of  a  wife. 

These  two  —  they  dwelt  with  eye  on  eye, 
Their  hearts  of  old  have  beat  in  tune, 
Their  meetings  made  December  June, 

Their  every  parting  was  to  die. 


TENNYSON  AND  HIS  TEACHERS       121 

Their  love  has  never  past  away ; 

The  days  she  never  can  forget 

Are  earnest  that  he  loves  her  yet, 
Whate'er  the  faithless  people  say. 

Her  life  is  lone,  he  sits  apart, 

He  loves  her  yet,  she  will  not  weep 
Though  rapt  in  matters  dark  and  deep 

He  seems  to  slight  her  simple  heart. 

He  thrids  the  labyrinth  of  the  mind, 

He  reads  the  secret  of  the  star, 

He  seems  so  near  and  yet  so  far, 
He  looks  so  cold :  she  thinks  him  kind. 

She  keeps  the  gift  of  years  before, 

A  wither'd  violet  is  her  bliss ; 

She  knows  not  what  his  greatness  is ; 
For  that,  for  all,  she  loves  him  more. 

For  him  she  plays,  to  him  she  sings 

Of  early  faith  and  plighted  vows ; 

She  knows  but  matters  of  the  house, 
And  he,  he  knows  a  thousand  things. 

Her  faith  is  fixt  and  cannot  move, 
She  darkly  feels  him  great  and  wise, 
She  dwells  on  him  with  faithful  eyes, 

1 1  cannot  understand :  I  love/" 

Sometimes  the  delineation  is  of  feeling  still  deeper  and 
more  hallowed,  as  in  this  picture  of  Mary,  when  Lazarus 
has  returned  from  the  grave  :  — 

"  Her  eyes  are  homes  of  silent  prayer, 
Nor  other  thought  her  mind  admits 
But,  he  was  dead,  and  there  he  sits, 
And  He  that  brought  him  back  is  there. 

FIRST  SERIES.  11 


122  TENNYSON    AND   HIS   TEACHERS. 

Then  one  deep  love  doth  supersede 
All  other,  when  her  ardent  gaze 
Roves  from  the  living  brother's  face, 

And  rests  upon  the  Life  indeed. 

All  subtle  thought,  all  curious  fears, 
Borne  down  by  gladness  so  complete, 
She  bows,  she  bathes  the  Saviour's  feet 

With  costly  spikenard  and  with  tears. 

Thrice  blest  whose  lives  are  faithful  prayers, 
Whose  loves  in  higher  love  endure ; 
What  souls  possess  themselves  so  pure, 

Or  is  there  blessedness  like  theirs  ?  " 

Of  the  aspect  of  nature,  with  the  great  shadow  falling 
over  it,  as  represented  by  the  poet,  the  following  superb 
piece  of  imaginative  description  may  enable  us  to  form  some 
conception. 

"  Calm  is  the  morn  without  a  sound, 
Calm  as  to  suit  a  calmer  grief, 
And  only  through  the  faded  leaf 
The  chestnut  pattering  to  the  ground : 

Calm  and  deep  peace  on  this  high  wold, 
And  on  these  dews  that  drench  the  furze, 
And  all  the  silvery  gossamers 

That  twinkle  into  green  and  gold : 

Calm  and  still  light  on  yon  great  plain 
That  sweeps  with  all  its  autumn  bowers, 
And  crowded  farms  and  lessening  towers, 

To  mingle  with  the  bounding  main  : 

Calm  and  deep  peace  in  this  wide  air, 
These  leaves  that  redden  to  the  fall ; 
And  in  my  heart,  if  calm  at  all, 

If  any  calm,  a  calm  despair : 


TENNYSON   AND   HIS   TEACHERS.  123 

Calm  on  the  seas,  and  silver  sleep, 

And  waves  that  sway  themselves  in  rest, 
And  dead  calm  in  that  noble  breast 

Which  heaves  but  with  the  heaving  deep." 

Again :  — 

"  Sweet  after  showers,  ambrosial  air, 
That  rollest  from  the  gorgeous  gloom 
Of  evening  over  brake  and  bloom 
And  meadow,  slowly  breathing  bare 



The  round  of  space,  and  rapt  below 

Through  all  the  dewy-tasselPd  wood, 
And  shadowing  down  the  horned  flood 
In  ripples,  fan  my  brows  and  blow 

The  fever  from  my  cheek,  and  sigh 
The  full  new  life  that  feeds  thy  breath 
Throughout  my  frame,  till  Doubt  and  Death, 

111  brethren,  let  the  fancy  fly  . 

From  belt  to  belt  of  crimson  seas 

On  leagues  of  odor  streaming  far, 

To  where  in  yonder  orient  star 
A  hundred  spirits  whisper  ■  Peace.'  * 

From  these  we  turn  naturally  to  the  more  meditative 
and  metaphysical  parts  of  the  poem.  The  hope  that 
crowns  the  shadow  with  glory  dawns  here,  though  some- 
what faintly: — 

"  Oh  yet  we  trust  that  somehow  good 
Will  be  the  final  goal  of  ill ! 
To  pangs  of  nature,  sins  of  will, 
Defects  of  doubt,  and  taints  of  blood : 


124  TENNYSON   AND   HIS   TEACHERS. 

That  nothing  walks  with  aimless  feet ; 

That  not  one  life  shall  be  destroy'd 

Or  cast  as  rubbish  to  the  void 
When  God  hath  made  the  pile  complete ; 

That  not  a  worm  is  cloven  in  vain ; 

That  not  a  moth  with  vain  desire 

Is  shrivel'd  in  a  fruitless  fire, 
Or  but  subserves  another's  gain. 

Behold,  we  know  not  anything; 

I  can  but  trust  that  good  shall  fall 

At  last — far  off — at  last,  to  all, 
And  every  winter  change  to  spring. 

So  runs  my  dream :  but  what  am  I  ? 

An  infant  crying  in  the  night  : 

An  infant  crying  for  the  light : 
And  with  no  language  but  a  cry." 

In  the  next,  the  spirit  of  man  rises  up  indignant  against 
the  idea  that  nature's  grandest  piece  of  work  will  be 
crumbled  into  notningness  by  death. 

*        *        *        "  And  he,  shall  he, 
*   Man,  her  last  work,  who  seem'd  so  fair, 
Such  splendid  purpose  in  his  eyes, 
Who  roll'd  the  psalm  to  wintry  skies, 

Who  built  him  fanes  of  fruitless  prayer, 

Who  trusted  God  was  love  indeed 
And  love  Creation's  final  law — 
Though  Nature,  red  in  tooth  and  claw 

With  ravine,  shriek'd  against  his  creed  — 

WTio  loved,  who  suffer'd  countless  ills, 
Who  battled  for  the  True,  the  Just, 
Be  blown  about  the  desert  dust, 

Or  seal'd  within  the  iron  hills  ? 


TENNYSON  AND  HIS  TEACHERS.      125 

No  more  ?     A  monster,  then,  a  dream, 
A  discord.     Dragons  of  the  jprime, 
That  tare  each  other  in  their  slime, 

Were  mellow  music  matched  with  him. 

O,  life  as  futile,  then,  as  frail ! 

O,  for  thy  voice  to  soothe  and  bless ! 

What  hope  of  answer  or  redress  ? 
Behind  the  vail,  behind  the  vail." 

In  the  following,  the  last  I  can  quote,  there  is  involved 
a  whole  philosophy  of  human  history. 

"  Contemplate  all  this  work  of  Time, 
The  giant  laboring  in  his  youth ; 
Nor  dream  of  human  love  and  truth, 
As  dying  Nature's  earth  and  lime  ; 

But  trust  that  those  we  call  the  dead, 

Are  breathers  of  an  ampler  day 

For  ever  nobler  ends.     They  say, 
The  solid  earth  whereon  we  tread 

In  tracts  of  fluent  heat  began,  . 

And  grew  to  seeming-random  forms, 
The  seeming  prey  of  cyclic  storms, 

Till  at  the  last  arose  the  man ; 

Who  throve  and  branch'd  from  clime  to  clime, 

The  herald  of  a  higher  race, 

And  of  himself  in  higher  place, 
If  so  he  type  this  work  of  time 

Within  himself,  from  more  to  more ; 
And,  crown'd  with  attributes  of  woe 
Like  glories,  move  his  course,  and  show 

That  life  is  not  as  idle  ore, 
11* 


126  TENNYSON    AND   HIS   TEACHERS. 

But  iron,  dug  from  central  gloom, 
And  heated  hot  with  burning  fears, 
And  dipt  in  baths  of  hissing  tears, 

And  batter'd  with  the  shocks  of  doom 

To  shape  and  use.     Arise  and  fly 
The  reeling  Faun,  the  sensual  feast ; 
Move  upward,  working  out  the  beast, 

And  let  the  ape  and  tiger  die." 

I  have  hitherto  used  solely  the  language  of  commendation. 
It  is  perhaps  not  too  presumptuous  to  say,  that  I  have 
exhibited  some  little  capacity  at  least  for  the  enjoyment 
of  Tennyson's  poetry.  I  consider  what  I  have  adduced 
to  be  matter  of  simple  and  conclusive  demonstration ;  and 
I  believe  it  to  be  sufficient  to  vindicate  for  Tennyson  the 
highest  place  among  the  British  poets  of  his  day.  He  will 
henceforth,  beyond  question,  be 

"  A  star  among  the  stars  of  mortal  night : " 

the  brightest  in  that  galaxy  of  poetic  genius,  containing 
Bailey,  Elizabeth  Barrett  Browning,  and  Alexander  Smith, 
which  illustrates  the  brave  days  of  the  Mother  Queen, 

"  And  like  one  constellation  bright, 
Moves  round  Victoria." 

But  now  I  am  brought  to  a  stand  still.  I  should  certainly 
feel  that  my  estimate  of  Tennyson's  genius  and  achieve* 
ment  was  little  worth,  if  I  could  apply  such  terms  as  I  have 
hitherto  made  use  of  to  one  of  his  recent  poems.  With 
precisely  the  same  decision  as  I  affirmed  of  In  Jfemoriam, 
that  in  every  aspect  and  by  every  test  it  is  great  and  mar- 
vellous, do  I  affirm  of  Maud  that  it  is  a  failure. 

The  grounds  of  defence  adopted  by  the  esoteric  few 


TENNYSON"  AND  HIS  TEACHERS.      127 

who  are  daring  enough  to  profess  admiration  both  for 
Maud  and  for  Tennyson  shift  and  vary.  Is  it  demon- 
strated that  the  feeling  of  the  poem  —  its  love-story  and 
passionate  delineation  —  is,  by  every  possible  definition, 
commonplace?  You  are  assured  that  Maud  is  a  grand 
ethical  composition,  in  which  sublime  truths,  concentrated  in 
the  bolts  of  satire,  are  hurled  at  a  degenerate  nation.  Is 
it  proved  that  the  thought,  the  truth,  the  doctrine,  of  the 
poem,  are,  in  a  similar  sense  and  degree,  hackneyed,  and, 
though  hackneyed,  by  no  means  profoundly  or  unquestion- 
ably true  ?  You  are  informed  that  the  description  of 
passion  is  exquisite  and  exact.  Is  it  shown  that  there  is 
here  no  artistic  perfection,  that,  in  one  word,  Maud  is  not 
beautiful  ?  You  are  met  with  knowing  and  oracular  hints 
about  truth  to  nature  and  dramatic  force,  and  asked  whether, 
beautiful  or  no,  the  characters  and  incidents  of  Maud  are 
not  exhibited  in  the;  actual  world,  and  peculiarly  at  the 
present  time.  Thus  do  these  select  persons  change  their 
position,  able  to  make  a  final  and  definite  stand  nowhere. 
If  the  mere  fact  that  certain  aspects  of  feeling  are  not 
incorrectly  rendered,  and  the  circumstance  that  here  and 
there  the  melody  is  exquisite  and  the  color  glowing,  are 
sufficient  to  make  a  poem  worthy  of  comparison  with  those 
of  the  poet  of  In  Memoriam,  it  may  be  conceded  that 
Maud  ranks  with  the  other  efforts  of  Tennyson.  But 
whatever  the  position  assigned  it,  the  following  points 
appear  to  me  to  be  literally  and  irresistibly  demonstrable : 
that  its  thought  is  commonplace  and  superficial ;  that  its 
central  idea,  in  respect  of  plot  and  passion,  is  in  no  possi- 
ble sense  original ;  and  that  no  consideration  of  dramatic 
fitness  is  of  the  least  avail  to  redeem  its  essential  defect  as 
a  work  of  Art,  its  want  of  beauty. 

What  is  the  tale,  what  the  argument  of  Maud  f    The 


128  TENNYSON   AND    HIS   TEACHERS. 

poem  cannot  be  seriously  charged  with  obscureness.  It  is 
so  short  that,  after  one  or  two  perusals,  its  plan  becomes 
perfectly  clear,  and  the  most  deplorable  of  pedants  finds 
himself  unable  to  pretend  that  it  contains  mysterious  truths 
patent  to  him  alone.  A  certain  person,  lying  under  circum- 
stances of  misfortune,  which  he  believes  traceable  to  lust 
of  gold,  and,  if  you  will,  to  the  evil  character  of  the  times, 
indulges  in  long  and  fierce  soliloquies  on  the  social  morality 
of  Great  Britain.  He  falls  in  love.  His  affection  is  recip- 
rocated. The  whole  world  beams  and  brightens  around 
him.  The  grass  has  a  fresher  green,  the  flowers  a  sweeter 
fragrance ;  and  he  asks  the  stars  whether  the  whole  world 
has  gone  nearer  to  their  light  that  they  shine  so  softly 
brilliant.  Suddenly  his  heavens  are  overcast.  He  kills  the 
brother  of  the  loved  one,  escapes  to  the  continent,  falls  into 
a  disordered  state  of  mind,  is  haunted  by  the  phantom  of 
Maud,  and  at  last,  having  returned  to  his  native  land,  is 
comforted  and  tranquillized  by  the  information,  imparted 
by  the  ghost,  that  there  is  "  a  hope  for  the  world  in  the 
coming  wars,"  of  which  the  Russian  war  is  the  commence- 
ment. That  is  all.  The  only  originality  about  which  I  care 
to  dispute  is  the  right  thing  in  the  right  place.  The  high 
argument  by  which  the  sanative  influence  of  war  in  human 
history  can  be  made  out,  by  which  carnage  can  be  proved 
to  be  the  daughter  of  God,  would  have  been  amply  suffi- 
cient, if  invested  with  poetic  form  in  a  manner  worthy  of 
the  imagination  before  which  arose  The  Palace  of  Art,  to 
have  vindicated  for  the  poem  a  true  originality.  But  do 
we  not  pause  in  astonishment  when  we  learn  that  there  are 
persons  who  are  not  sensible  of  an  incongruity  and  absurd- 
ity, nay  who  profess  to  find  a  magnificent  poetic  fitness, 
in  the  proclamation  of  this  great  truth  by  means  of  the 
machinery  of  a  private  love  affair,  the  hero  of  which  is  on 


TENNYSON   AND    HIS   TEACHERS.  129 

all  hands  allowed  to  be  a  weakling!  The  author  of  Locks- 
ley  Hall  and  The  Palace  of  Art  demands  our  assent  to  a 
mighty  truth,  by  letting  us  hear  a  jargoning,  ill-conditioned 
misanthrope  declare  that  a  tailor,  dishonest  in  peace,  would 
be  brave  in  war ;  and  by  introducing  the  ghost  of  a  pretty 
girl,  informing  her  distracted  lover,  that  the  Russian  war 
will  be  a  good  beginning  of  the  end!  Scott  has  been 
blamed  for  warning  Fitz-James  by  means  of  a  mad  girl, 
but  his  device  is  unobjectionable  compared  with  this.  Put- 
ting together  the  importance  of  the  intelligence  and  the 
weight  of  the  authority,  one  is  reminded,  by  Mr.  Tenny- 
son's climax,  only  of  the  person,  somewhat  crazed,  who 
convoked,  it  is  said,  the  inhabitants  of  Edinburgh  for  the 
purpose  of  announcing  some  momentous  fact,  and  declared, 
to  the  assembled  Athenians,  that  he  was  about  to  assert  his 
title  to  the  throne  of  Great  Britain,  seeing  that  his  mother's 
ghost  had  informed  him,  on  the  Broomielaw  of  Glasgow, 
that  he  was  the  Prince  of  "Wales.  It  needs  more  than  a 
ghost  to  tell  us  some  things !  To  descend  more  to  detail, 
the  gloomy  descriptions  of  the  age  blustered  forth  by  our 
hero  can  be  accurately  paralleled  from  any  one  of  Mr.  Car- 
lyle's  books,  written  after  the  period  at  which  that  author 
abandoned  reasoning  and  resolved  to  confine  himself  to 
denunciation.  Selected  passages  from  the  Latter  Day 
Pamphlets,  very  scantily  softened  by  the  form  of  verse, 
would  fairly  outdo,  in  downright  jagged  scolding,  all  the 
rant  of  this  uncouth  lover.  There  is  nothing  now  more 
utterly  commonplace  than  indiscriminate  and  unmeasured 
denunciation.  Tennyson  was  surely  not  the  man  to  follow 
in  the  wake  of  Mr.  Kingsley  in  mimicking  the  worst  parts 
of  Carlyle.  The  love-story,  again,  apart  from  the  ethical 
truth  it  so  artistically  embodies,  is  as  commonplace  as  the 
denunciation.     It  is  true  that  happy  love  spreads  a  blessed 


130  TENNYSON   AND   HIS   TEACHERS. 

illumination  over  the  face  of  things,  and  unhappy  love  a 
blasting  gloom.  But  there  can  be  no  originality  in  describ- 
ing, for  a  second  or  a  fiftieth  time,  what  you  have  yourself 
described  before,  or  what  has  been  elsewhere  described 
much  better.  The  harp  of  life,  struck  by  the  hand  of 
love,  was  heard  in  -Locksley  Hall  discoursing  new  and  most 
eloquent  music ;  the  moorland  was  there  found  to  be 
dreary,  and  the  shore  barren,  when  the  light  of  love  was 
withdrawn.  The  influence  of  happy  affection  and  the 
reverse  was  told  once  and  forever  in  Locksley  Hall.  It 
is  deeply  to  be  deplored  that  Mr.  Tennyson  returned  to 
a  theme  which  the  might  of  his  own  genius  had  exhausted. 
But  not  only  will  the  author's  own  volumes  deprive  the 
delineations  of  feeling  in  Maud  of  originality.  "We  must 
assert  its  claim  to  that  characteristic,  if  we  insist  in  so 
doing,  in  face  of  all  the  circulating  libraries.  In  Jane 
Eyre,  in  Shirley,  in  Villette,  in  the  loves  of  Jane  and 
Rochester,  of  Shirley  and  Moore,  of  John  and  Polly,  the 
not  very  recondite  truth  that  the  birds  do  n't  sing  sweetly 
when  the  heart  is  weary  and  filled  with  care,  is  proclaimed 
and  illustrated.  Here,  in  fact,  lay  the  chief  strength  of 
one  of  the  most  powerful  female  intellects  which  ever 
existed ;  and  it  is  no  insult  to  Tennyson  to  say  that,  if  in 
Locksley  Hall  he  showed  love  in  joy  and  in  sorrow,  with 
an  epic  power  beyond  any  emulation  of  the  novelist,  he  has, 
in  Maud,  fallen  immeasurably  behind  Charlotte  Bronte. 

I  have  named  Locksley  Hall  as  exhibiting  in  some  re- 
spects a  resemblance  to  Maud.  But  the  two  poems  do 
not,  on  the  whole,  admit  of  comparison.  Locksley  Hall, 
though,  rhythmically  considered,  an  exception  to  Tenny- 
son's previous  poems,  is  of  its  sort  an  absolute  master- 
piece. No  lyre  ever  voiced  the  wild  yet  melodious 
raptures  of  passion  more  deeply  or  powerfully.     But  what 


TENNYSON  AND  HIS  TEACHERS.      131 

is  the  melody  of  Maud  ?  It  is  neither  the  rapid,  glancing 
lilt  of  Scott,  the  fervid  rush  of  Byron,  nor  the  rich  in- 
woven harmony,  of  lute  and  harp  and  organ,  to  which  our 
ear  had  been  tuned  by  Tennyson.  Its  music  is  the  music 
of  kettle  drums  at  a  recruits'  ball.  Sometimes,  indeed,  a 
wandering  strain  from  the  old  music,  seeming  to  rise  magi- 
cally from  the  far  distance,  takes  us  with  the  old  delight : — 

"  Alas  for  her  that  met  me, 

That  heard  me  softly  call, 
Came  glimmering  through  the  laurels 

At  the  quiet  evenfall, 
In  the  garden  by  the  turrets 

Of  the  old  manorial  hall." 

In  the  love  song  of  the  garden,  too,  the  lyric  harmony 
and  glowing  joyousness  are  truly  refreshing  and  delightful. 
But  as  for  the  poem  in  general,  it  will  never  be  recognized 
as  tuneful  by  any  human  ear,  unless  hopelessly  stuffed  with 
pedantic  cotton.  One  cannot  help  imagining  it  sung  by 
skeletons,  to  the  accompaniment  of  rattling  bones. 

I  am  perfectly  aware,  dear  pedantic  critic,  —  who  have 
had  the  misfortune  to  study  yourself  out  of  all  human  sym- 
pathy, and  think  nothing  worth  discovering  unless  it  is  n't 
there,  —  that  you  will  affirm  both  the  flitting  feverish  style 
of  narrative,  and  the  jerking,  jingling  melody,  adapted  to 
the  general  character  of  Maud,  and  on  that  account  right. 
I  answer  that  the  person,  into  whose  mouth  the  whole  is 
put,  must  be  supposed  to  utter  it  after  his  madness  is  over ; 
and  that  an  enveloping  calm,  which  Tennyson  knows  so 
well  how  to  combine  with  power  of  expression,  would  have 
had  a  far  finer  artistic  effect  than  this  atmosphere  of  wild- 
ness  and  raving.  It  is,  besides,  a  fatal  objection  to  any 
work  of  Art,  even  though  it  be  descriptive  of  madness, 


132  TENNYSON   AND   HIS   TEACHERS. 

that  there  does  not  dwell  in  it  some  fascination,  making 
you  contemplate  it  with  a  certain  pleasure.  In  the  case  of 
poetical  Art,  this  pleasure  is  inseparably  connected  with 
tune,  and  were  it  only  that  the  ear  acknowledges  no  fasci- 
nation in  Maud,  it  would  be  proved  artistically  and  poeti- 
cally wrong.  An  all  important  distinction  is  here  to  be 
made,  between  the  effect  on  our  feelings,  produced  by  the 
scenes  or  characters  of  the  artist  in  themselves,  and  the 
charm  by  which  he  constrains  us  to  look  upon  them.  We 
loathe  Iago  and  detest  Shylock,  yet,  while  delineating 
them,  Shakspeare  enthrals  us  with  a  mighty  fascination. 
We  shrink  in  horror  from  Haley  or  Legree,  and  almost 
shriek  when  old  Tom  is  lashed  to  death :  yet  to  the  repul- 
siveness  of  Haley  and  Legree,  and  the  death  of  the  Negro, 
much  of  the  popularity  of  Uncle  Tom?  8  Cabin  is  to  be 
imputed.  The  power,  in  fact,  of  the  artist's  genius  is  dis- 
played mainly  in  the  spell  by  which  he  fixes  our  gaze  when 
he  chooses.  With  Crabbe,  we  tire  not  in  looking  upon  the 
jabbering  maniac ;  with  Tennyson,  we  calmly  behold  the 
ancient  dragons  tearing  each  other  in  their  slime.  Art 
paints  you  the  sea  shore,  but  it  does  not  spatter  you  with 
the  sand  and  surf.  In  Maud  all  this  is  forgotten.  We 
are  charmed  by  no  sense  of  appropriateness,  lured  by  no 
perception  of  means  converging  to  an  end,  to  sympathize 
with  or  suffer  the  unmelodious  ranter.  It  is  as  if  Mrs. 
Stowe  had  at  once  broken  on  us  with  the  screams  of 
Uncle  Tom;  as  if  Crabbe  had  merely  jotted  down  the 
ravings  of  his  maniac ;  as  if  Shakspeare  had  simply,  accu- 
rately, and  by  themselves,  echoed  the  chatterings  of  Lear. 
I  argue,  of  course,  on  the  supposition  that  unmelodious- 
ness  is  conceded  in  Maud  and  defended  on  the  ground 
of  appropriateness. 
The  mere  play  of  the  sympathies  of  the  reader  is  not 


TENNYSON    AND   HIS   TEACHERS.  133 

secured  in  this  poem.  The  heroine  may  pass.  She  can 
sing.  But  why  does  she  love  this  remarkable  hero  ?  He 
is  a  sour,  shabby,  purposeless  soliloquizer.  By  all  physio- 
logical and  physiognomical  reasons,  he  is  sallow,  squalid, 
with  his  skin  hanging  loose  on  his  bones,  with  matted  hair, 
shuffling,  conceited,  probably  squint-eyed,  demonstrably  a 
sloven.  Why  does  she  love  him  ?  He  hates  her  kindred 
and  all  men  and  women.  He  is  moody,  idle,  given  to 
night  walking.     Worst   of   all,   he  writes  such  verse  as 

u  I  kissed  her  slender  hand, 
She  took  the  kiss  sedately, 
Maud  is  not  seventeen, 
But  she  is  tall  and  stately." 

It  is  a  scientific  fact,  deserving,  for  the  honor  of  the  fair, 
all  due  prominence,  that  no  woman  of  the  Anglo-Saxon 
race  could  love  a  man  capable  of  such  maundering.  Why 
does  Maud  love  him  ?  He  goes  about*  with  an  aggrieved, 
injured-looking,  gingerly  expression,  which  makes  you  ex- 
pect he  is  going  to  knock  you  down.  Poe's  raven  is 
the  only  hero  in  literature  his  precise  counterpart ;  but  the 
raven  had  some  dignity,  and  was  not  so  intensely  egotistical, 
so  profoundly  selfish,  as  this  ungainly,  gaunt,  and  ominous 
radical.  And  Maud,  with  aristocracy  in  every  line  of  her 
face,  loves  him !  Nay,  she  seems  to  be  attracted  by  his 
personal  appearance,  perhaps  by  his  bright  and  benignant 
look  when  he  first  makes  up  his  mind  that  she  has  neither 
savor  nor  salt.  She  smiles  him  on  without  any  meetings 
that  we  hear  of,  without  any  attractions  on  his  part  that  we 
can  conceive.  What  great  Apollo  will  render  us  the 
reason  of  this? 

The  Princess,  though  inferior  to  the  general  run  of 

FIRST  SERIES.  12 


134  TENNYSON   AND    HIS    TEACHERS. 

Tennyson's  earlier  poems,  on  the  one  hand,  and  to  the 
single  magnificent  effort  of  In  Memoriam,  on  the  other, 
contains  much  exquisite  poetry,  and  can  hardly  fail  to  main- 
tain its  place  as  a  classic.  It  will  stand  higher  than  the 
Story  of  Rimini,  though  not,  I  think,  in  a  different  class. 

It  is  my  strong  conviction  that  neither  Maud  nor  The 
Princess  was  the  result  of  very  deep  or  natural  feeling  on 
the  part  of  Tennyson.  Let  it  not  be  imagined  that  I  bring 
here  any  charge  of  mere  affectation  against  the  poet,  or  for 
a  moment  sanction  the  idea  that  he  deliberately  set  himself 
to  sing  about  what  he  cared  nothing  for.  This  superficial 
affectation  is  rare  indeed  with  men  of  real  genius.  But 
it  is  competent  to  criticism,  nay  it  is  one  of  the  most  im- 
portant tasks  of  a  criticism  aiming  at  philosophic  accuracy, 
to  penetrate  the  sources  of  feeling  in  the  case  of  poetic 
production,  to  determine  whether  it  dwelt  really  in  the 
deepest  nature  of  the  poet,  commanding  all  his  powers,  or 
whether  it  was,  more  or  less  decidedly,  more  or  less 
unconsciously,  assumed.  It  can  hardly  be  alleged  that 
the  feeling  in  Byron's  Tales  is  not,  in  a  sense,  strong  and 
sincere :  yet  there  are  few  who  would  now  declare  that  the 
central  affection  of  Byron's  nature,  a  nature,  as  Moore 
declared,  at  bottom  essentially  practical  and  English,  was 
awakened  by  those  scowling  Giaours  and  tragical  Gulnares. 
The  genius  of  Tennyson,  I  must  be  permitted  to  consider, 
is  radically  of  a  far  rarer  kind  than  Byron's ;  and  being  of 
a  rarer  kind,  it  admits  less  of  any  compulsion,  however 
subtle,  it  acts  with  more  pure  unconsciousness.  Byron  was 
to  a  remarkable  extent  a  made  poet ;  he  knew  well  whence 
he  drew  his  stores  and  who  were  his  masters ;  he  could  at 
any  time  write  about  equally  well  on  any  subject.  He  did 
a  set  of  Hebrew  Melodies,  we  might  almost  say,  to  order, 
and  did  them  incomparably ;  he  had  acquired  the  Art  of 


TENNYSON  AND  HIS  TEACHERS.      135 

Poetry  as  Landseer  has  acquired  the  Art  of  Painting.  But 
Tennyson  is  not  thus  master  of  his  capacities ;  their  very 
rareness,  costliness,  dewy  delicacy,  prevent  his  being  so. 
It  is  said  that,  before  accepting  the  Laureateship,  he  stipu- 
lated that  he  should  not  have  to  compose  birthday  odes  by 
tale ;  and  the  fact  would  merely  indicate  his  own  conscious- 
ness of  the  glorious  impotence  of  genius.  Now,  in  the  case- 
both  of  his  earlier  poems  and  of  In  Memoriam,  the  im- 
pulse to  poetical  production  was  natural,  spontaneous,  and 
mighty.  In  the  former  it  was  the  first  youthful  enthusiasm 
for  the  Beautiful,  the  pure  outgoing  of  uncontrollable 
radiance  from  the  poet's  soul,  coloring  all  nature,  and, 
wherever  it  fell,  coming  straight  from  the  centre.  In  the 
latter,  the  impulse  was  one  which  affected  the  whole  life ; 
a  deep,  genuine,  though  noble  and  manly  sorrow,  con- 
strained all  the  powers  to  minister  to  it.  But  in  the  case 
both  of  The  Princess  and  Maud,  I  am  assured  that  Ten- 
nyson felt  himself  expected  to  write,  that  he  more  or  less 
looked  out  for  a  subject.  In  almost  every  other  case,  his 
subject  was  not  sought  for,  but  came  of  its  own  accord. 
The  poem  in  which  it  bloomed  out  in  fadeless  beauty 
expanded  spontaneously  like  a  rose  amid  the  dews  and 
sunbeams.  In  Maud  and  The  Princess  it  is  Tennyson 
that  works :  in  the  others  his  mind  is  but  the  JEolian  harp 
from  which  the  cunning  hand  of  nature  draws  ethereal 
music. 

There  are  scattered  over  certain  of  the  larger  poems  of 
Tennyson,  and  there  are  found  separately  among  his  earlier 
pieces,  short  lyrics  of  a  highly  remarkable  character.  They 
combine  an  elaboration  that  reminds  one  of  the  odes  of 
Keats,  with  a  rapidity  and  sweep  not  altogether  unworthy 
of  Campbell.  Amid  the  beauty  of  Tennyson's  general 
poetry,  such  lyrics  shine  out  conspicuously  beautiful,  like 


136  TENNYSON   AND   HIS   TEACHERS. 

diamonds  in  gold  fields.  I  cannot  do  better,  in  drawing 
towards  a  conclusion,  than  take  up  a  few  of  these  gems, 
and  string  them  together,  as  it  were,  into  a  diamond 
necklace. 

The  first  shall  be  taken  from  The  Miller's  Daughter. 
That  poem  is  one  of  the  finest  emotional  poems  in  the 
language ;  true  in  its  originality,  tenderly  beautiful  in  its 
imagery,  life  itself  in  its  feeling.  The  poetry  of  married 
life  is  there  expressed  perhaps  for  the  first  time,  and  so 
well  that  it  might  be  the  last.  The  very  spirit  and  essence 
of  connubial  felicity  breathe  through  the  piece,  and  its 
supremacy,  in  the  deep  rest  and  peacefulness  of  its  joy,  to 
the  fiery  thrillings  of  passion,  is  triumphantly  asserted. 

"  True  wife, 
Round  my  true  heart  thine  arms  entwine ; 
My  other  dearer  life  in  life, 

Look  through  my  very  soul  with  thine  ! 


The  kiss, 
The  woven  arms,  seem  but  to  be 
Weak  symbols  of  the  settled  bliss, 
The  comfort,  I  have  found  in  thee." 

But  I  digress.  It  is  not  with  The  Miller's  Daughter  we 
have  at  present  to  do ;  it  is  with  one  of  those  trills  of  lyric 
melody,  which  so  charmingly  interrupt  its  general  flow; 
a  little  love  song,  given  by  the  bridegroom  to  the  bride  on 
their  wedding  day.  The  ideas  are  simple,  and  their  sug- 
gestion probably  as  old  as  Anacreon,  but  the  birds  in  the 
hedges,  as  the  young  pair  passed  along,  could  not  have 
carolled  >more  gaily  or  tenderly. 


TENNYSON   AND   HIS   TEACHERS.  137 

"  It  is  the  miller's  daughter, 
And  she  is  grown  so  dear,  so  dear, 
That  I  would  be  the  jewel 
That  trembles  at  her  ear ; 
For,  hid  in  ringlets  day  and  night, 
I  *d  touch  her  cheek  so  warm  and  white. 

And  I  would  be  the  girdle 

About  her  dainty,  dainty  waist, 

And  her  heart  would  beat  against  me 

In  sorrow  and  in  rest ; 

And  I  should  know  if  it  beat  right, 

I  'd  clasp  it  round  so  close  and  tight. 

And  I  would  be  the  necklace, 

And  all  day  long  to  fall  and  rise 

Upon  her  balmy  bosom, 

With  her  laughter  or  her  sighs, 

And  I  would  lie  so  light,  so  light, 

I  scarce  should  be  unclasp'd  at  night" 

The  next  is  a  higher  effort.  It  may,  without  any  hesita- 
tion, be  pronounced  one  of  the  most  successful  efforts  ever 
made  in  lyric  poetry.  Except  perhaps  the  appropriation 
of  "  the  vision  of  the  world  and  all  the  glory  that  shall  be," 
as  the  song  of  the  poet,  there  is  in  it  no  originality  of  idea. 
The  feat  of  Orpheus  was  essentially  that  here  recorded. 
But  where,  in  the  compass  of  sixteen  lines,  can  we  find 
such  a  description,  of  that  sudden  amazement  and  rapture, 
with  which  the  voice  of  human  song  was  from  of  old  said 
to  take  the  ear  of  nature  ?  The  delineation  is  as  clear  as  it 
is  condensed.  Every  touch  is  laid  on  as  with  a  pencil  of 
light ;  and  Homer  never  was  more  graphic.  In  the  melody 
there  is  a  blending  of  buoyancy  and  stateliness  beyond  all 
praise. 

12* 


138  TENNYSON   AND   HIS   TEACHERS. 

THE  POET'S   SONG. 

"  The  rain  had  fallen,  the  poet  arose, 

He  pass'd  by  the  town  and  out  of  the  street; 
A  light  wind  blew  from  the  gates  of  the  sun, 

And  waves  of  shadow  went  over  the  wheat ; 
And  he  sat  him  down  in  a  lonely  place, 

And  chanted  a  melody  loud  and  sweet, 
That  made  the  wild  swan  pause  in  her  cloud, 

And  the  lark  drop  down  at  his  feet. 

The  swallow  stopt  as  he  hunted  the  bee, 

The  snake  slipt  under  a  spray, 
The  wild  hawk  stood  with  the  down  on  his  beak, 

And  stared,  with  his  foot  on  the  prey, 
And  the  nightingale  thought, '  I  have  sung  many  songs* 

But  never  a  one  so  gay, 
For  he  sings  of  what  the  world  will  be 

When  the  years  have  passed  away.' n 

The  following  is  in  a  strain  equally  exalted:  perhaps 
more  so.  The  vision  swept  grandly  before  the  poet's  eye, 
and  he  shed  out  on  it  a  light  of  immortality. 

M  Of  old  sat  Freedom  on  the  heights, 
The  thunders  breaking  at  her  feet: 
Above  her  shook  the  starry  lights : 
She  heard  the  torrents  meet. 

There  in  her  place  she  did  rejoice, 

Self-gather'd  in  her  prophet-mind, 
But  fragments  of  her  mighty  voice 

Came  rolling  on  the  wind. 

Then  stept  she  down  through  town  and  field 

To  mingle  with  the  human  race, 
And  part  by  part  to  men  reveal'd 

The  fullness  of  her  face  — 


TENNYSON  AND  HIS  TEACHERS.      139 

Grave  mother  of  majestic  works, 

From  her  isle-altar  gazing  down, 
Who,  God-like,  grasps  the  triple  forks, 

And,  King-like,  wears  the  crown; 

Her  open  eyes  desire  the  truth. 

The  wisdom  of  a  thousand  years 
Is  in  them.    May  perpetual  youth 

Keep  dry  their  light  from  tears ; 

That  her  fair  form  may  stand  and  shine, 
Make  bright  our  days  and  light  our  dreams, 

Turning  to  scorn  with  lips  divine 
The  falsehood  of  extremes ! " 


Our  next  is  of  a  lowlier  order  and  a  milder  tone,  but  in 
its  way  is  exceedingly  fine.  Tennyson  is  a  great  master  of 
pathos ;  knows  the  very  tones  that  go  to  the  heart ;  can 
arrest  every  one  of  those  looks  of  upbraiding  or  appeal, 
by  which  human  woe  brings  the  tear  into  the  human  eye. 
In  the  few  simple  verses  that  follow,  the  pathos  is  purely 
realistic.  Trusting  to  the  mighty  simplicity  of  nature,  the 
poet  has  so  completely  divested  the  lines  of  all  meretricious 
adornment,  nay  of  all  the  coloring  which  even  a  chaste 
imagination  can  cast  over  fact,  that  they  at  first  appear 
somewhat  hard  and  bare.  But  only  look  long  enough 
upon  that  simple  fact :  those  tears,  tenderest  of  all,  that 
mingle  joy  with  sorrow,  can  hardly  fail  to  come. 


"  Home  they  brought  her  warrior  dead : 
She  nor  swoon'd,  nor  utter'd  cry ; 
All  her  maidens,  watching,  said, 
'  She  must  weep,  or  she  will  die.' 


140  TENNYSON   AND   HIS   TEACHERS. 

Then  they  praised  him,  soft  and  low, 

Call'd  him  worthy  to  be  loved, 
Truest  friend  and  noblest  foe ; 

Yet  she  neither  spoke  nor  moved. 

Stole  a  maiden  from  her  place, 

Lightly  to  the  warrior  stept, 
Took  the  face-cloth  from  the  face ; 

Yet  she  neither  moved  nor  wept. 

Rose  a  nurse  of  ninety  years, 

Set  his  child  upon  her  knee ; 
Like  summer  tempest  came  her  tears — 

*  Sweet  my  child,  I  live  for  thee/  " 

There  is  far  more  than  mere  realism  in  the  next.  Imagina- 
tion in  her  highest  mood  strikes  the  harp,  and  marshals  the 
stately  imagery.  The  pathos  here  too  is  deep,  but  it  is  the 
majesty  not  the  prostration  of  grief. 

"  Tears,  idle  tears,  I  know  not  what  they  mean, 
Tears  from  the  depths  of  some  divine  despair 
Rise  in  the  heart  and  gather  to  the  eyes, 
In  looking  on  the  happy  autumn-fields, 
Amd  thinking  of  the  days  that  are  no  more. 

Fresh  as  the  first  beam  glittering  on  a  sail, 
That  brings  our  friends  up  from  the  under  world, 
Sad  as  the  last  which  reddens  over  one 
That  sinks  with  all  we  love  below  the  verge 
So  sad,  so  fresh,  the  days  that  are  no  more. 

Ah,  sad  and  strange  as  in  dark  summer  dawns 

The  earliest  pipe  of  half-awaken'd  birds 

To  dying  ears,  when  unto  dying  eyes 

The  casement  slowly  grows  a  glimmering  square ; 

So  sad,  so  strange,  the  days  that  are  no  more. 


TENNYSON  AND  HIS  TEACHERS.      141 

Dear  as  remember'd  kisses  after  death, 
And  sweet  as  those  by  hopeless  fancy  feign'd 
On  lips  that  are  for  others ;  deep  as  love, 
Deep  as  first  love,  and  wild  with  all  regret ; 
O  death  in  life,  the  days  that  are  no  more." 

It  has  been  said  that  the  whole  of  In  Memoriam  is  in 
the  following ;  and  the  expression  is  not  absurd. 

u  Break,  break,  break, 

On  thy  cold  gray  stones,  oh  Sea ! 
And  I  would  that  my  tongue  could  utter 
The  thoughts  that  arise  in  me. 

O  well  for  the  fisherman's  boy, 
That  he  shouts  with  his  sister  at  play  I 

O  well  for  the  sailor  lad, 
That  he  sings  in  his  boat  on  the  bay. 

And  the  stately  ships  go  on 

To  the  haven  under  the  hill ; 
But  oh  for  the  touch  of  a  vanish'd  hand, 

And  the  sound  of  a  voice  that  is  still ! 

Break,  break,  break, 

At  the  foot  of  thy  crags,  oh  Sea ! 
But  the  tender  grace  of  a  day  that  is  dead 

"Will  never  come  back  to  me." 

The  two  pieces  preceding  the  last  are  from  The  Princess. 
So  is  the  next.  The  heroine  of  that  poem  is  represented 
standing  on  the  roof  of  her  palace,  a  golden  circlet  round 
her  hair  and  a  babe  in  her  arms,  and  uplifting,  "  like  that 
great  dame  of  Lapidoth,"  the  martial  strain.  It  is  uttered 
in  exultation  over  the  defeat  of  her  enemies  by  her  selected 
champions. 


142  TENNYSON   AND    HIS   TEACHERS. 

Our  enemies  have  fall'n,  have  fall'n :  the  seed, 
The  little  seed  they  laugh'd  at  in  the  dark, 
Has  risen  and  cleft  the  soil,  and  grown  a  bulk 
Of  spanless  girth,  that  lays  on  every  side 
A  thousand  arms,  and  rushes  to  the  sun. 

Our  enemies  have  fall'n,  have  fall'n :  they  came  ; 
The  leaves  were  wet  with  women's  tears :  they  heard 
A  noise  of  songs  they  would  not  understand : 
They  mark'd  it  with  the  red  cross  to  the  fall, 
And  would  have  strewn  it,  and  are  fall'n  themselves. 

Our  enemies  have  fall'n,  have  fall'n :  they  came, 
The  woodmen  with  their  axes  :  lo  the  tree  ! 
But  we  will  make  it  faggots  for  the  hearth, 
And  shape  it  plank  and  beam  for  roof  and  floor, 
And  boats  and  bridges  for  the  use  of  men. 

Our  enemies  have  fall'n,  have  fall'n :  they  struck ; 
With  their  own  blows  they  hurt  themselves,  nor  knew 
There  dwelt  an  iron  nature  in  the  grain : 
The  glittering  axe  was  broken  in  their  arms, 
Their  arms  were  shatter'd  to  the  shoulder  blade. 

Our  enemies  have  fall'n,  but  this  shall  grow 
A  night  of  Summer  from  the  heat,  a  breadth 
Of  Autumn,  dropping  fruits  of  power ;  and  roll'd 
r  With  music  in  the  growing  breeze  of  Time, 
The  tops  shall  strike  from  star  to  star,  the  fangs 
Shall  move  the  stony  bases  of  the  world." 

I  add  only  that  singular,  mysterious,  yet  strangely  fasci- 
nating lyric,  a  play  of  wild  fantastic  melody,  and  flashing, 
foam-like  color,  which  was  composed,  I  believe,  to  the 
Killarney  bugle  music.  The  descriptive  touches  in  the 
first  verse  are  superb. 


TENNYSON    AND    HIS   TEACHERS.  143 

"  The  splendor  falls  on  castle  walls 

And  snowy  summits  old  in  story ; 
The  long  light  shakes  across  the  lakes, 

And  the  wild  cataract  leaps  in  glory. 
Blow,  bugle,  blow,  set  the  wild  echoes  flying: 
Blow,  bugle ;  answer,  echoes,  dying,  dying,  dying. 

O  hark!  O  hear!  how  thin  and  clear, 

And  thinner,  clearer,  further  going ! 
O  sweet  and  far  from  cliff  and  scar, 

The  horns  of  Elfland  faintly  blowing ! 
Blow,  let  us  hear  the  purple  glens  replying : 
Blow,  bugle ;  answer,  echoes,  dying,  dying,  dying. 

O  love,  they  die  in  yon  rich  sky, 

They  faint  on  hill  or  field  or  river : 
Our  echoes  roll  from  soul  to  soul, 

And  grow  forever  and  forever. 
Blow,  bugle,  blow,  set  the  wild  echoes  flying. 
And  answer,  echoes,  answer,  dying,  dying,  dying." 

Historical  parallels  are  not  always  or  entirely  to  be  relied 
on ;  for  time  never  accurately  repeats  itself,  and  external 
resemblances  may  divert  attention  from  essential  though 
deep-lying  differences.  The  British  world  of  to-day  is  alto- 
gether different  from  that  of  the  commencement  of  last 
century.  Yet  I  cannot  but  perceive,  if  not  a  parallel,  at  />S4s 
least  a  correspondence,  between  the  poetry  of  Tennyson 
and  that  of  the  Pope  and  Dryden  school.  Since  the  Puri- 
tan era,  there  had  been  in  Great  Britain  no  period  of 
excitement  so  deep  and  general,  as  that  of  the  end  of  last 
century  and  the  commencement  of  the  present.  In  the 
former  period,  the  minds  of  men  were  shaken  in  religious 
and  civil  revolutions ;  in  the  latter,  though  religion  had 
receded  into  the  background,  the  convulsive  stragglings  of 


144  TENNYSON    AND   HIS    TEACHERS. 

democracy,  and  the  magnificent  war-drama  with  all  Europe 
for  a  stage,  had  awakened  every  energy  and  every  enthu- 
siasm that  slumbers  in  the  human  breast.  These  two 
periods  seem  to  answer  each  other  with  their  rolling  thun- 
ders, silencing  all  intermediate  noises.  Each  had  a  poetical 
literature.  That  of  the  Puritan  age  was  concentrated  in 
one  man,  John  Milton.  He  was  a  literature  in  himself,  an 
ample,  a  magnificent  literature.  The  earnestness  of  that 
heroic  time,  of  which  throbbings  may  yet  be  detected  both 
in  Britain  and  America,  will  burn,  through  the  night  of  all 
ages,  in  his  sublimest  epic.  The  poetic  literature  of  the 
modern  period  is  represented  in  Great  Britain  by  a  multi- 
tude of  names,  Scott,  Byron,  "Wordsworth,  and  the  rest ; 
men  endowed  with  a  poetic  genius  so  true  and  so  powerful, 
that  they  plainly  tower  above  all  who  had  preceded  them 
since  the  Puritan  era :  but  whose  highest  applause  it  must 
be,  that  their  united  voice  wakes  an  echo  worthy  to  reply 
to  the  single  harp  of  Milton.  After  the  Puritan  poetry, 
came  the  poetry  of  Dryden  and  Pope.  This  was  calmer, 
smoother,  smaller.  Neatness  and  elegance  succeeded  to 
rugged  strength,  appropriate  thoughts  neatly  expressed, 
balanced  sentences  trimly  versified,  to  great  ideas  chafing 
in  the  harness  of  diction,  and  burdened  sentences  rolling  on 
in  stern  majestic  rhythm.  Dryden  is  a  versifier  but  no 
poet,  said  Milton :  the  Puritan  poet  would  probably  have 
considered  inconsistent  with  the  poetic  character  that  power 
of  dexterous  manipulation,  that  capacity  of  delicate  chisel- 
ling, by  which  the  poets  of  the  new  school  set  so  much 
store.  To  the  poetry  of  the  modern  revolutionary  time, 
succeeded  the  poetry  of  Tennyson.  It  contrasted  with  that 
immediately  preceding,  in  the  perfection  of  its  finish,  and 
in  its  deeper,  more  delicate  harmony.  It  was  also,  on  the 
whole,  more  calm  and  reflective.     So  far  it  may  correspond 


TENNYSON  AND  HIS  TEACHERS.      145 

to  the  poetry  of  Pope  and  his  compeers.  But  the  parallel 
cannot  be  carried  further.  The  poetry  of  Tennyson  is 
pervaded  by  an  intense  realism,  by  a  deep  unvarying  truth, 
which  sets  it  altogether  apart  from  that  of  the  school  of 
Pope.  Here  all  passion,  from  the  panting  ecstacy  of  first 
love  to  the  satisfied,  smiling  happiness  of  connubial  affection, 
is  voiced  with  pure  veracity.  Here  the  deepest  thoughts 
that  can  occupy  the  human  mind  are  earnestly  grappled 
with,  and  every  shred  of  conventionality  is  flung  aside. 
The  very  finish,  the  polish  and  delicacy,  are  not  the  result 
of  deliberate  manipulation,  but  the  natural  mode  in  which 
a  poet,  endowed  with  marvellous  powers  of  expression,  and 
accustomed  to  wander  through  all  the  Muses'  walk,  clothes 
his  ideas  and  emotions.  Such  a  poet  cannot  soon  be  popu- 
lar with  the  million;  but  as  the  last  and  most  exquisite 
culture  of  educated  minds,  as  the  ultimate  sublimation  of 
thought  and  beauty,  as  the  most  refined  expression  of  the 
most  refined  civilization  that  ever  dawned  upon  the  world, 
his  works  must  continue  to  exercise  a  mighty  influence 
upon  the  leading  intellects  of  those  nations  which  lead  the 
world. 

FIRST  SERIES.  13 


r- 


III. 

MRS.  BARRETT  BROWNING. 

There  are  two  things,  for  which,  I  think,  the  world  has 
especially  to  rejoice,  in  contemplating  the  position  and 
circumstances  of  Shakspeare.  The  first  is,  that  he  was 
not  technically  a  scholar,  that  between  him  and  the  great 
ancient  hearts  whose  secrets  he  was  to  read,  there  inter- 
vened, not  the  frosty  twilight  of  antiquarian  lore,  but  only 
the  unpretentious  dimness  of  translation  and  tradition. 
How  well  that,  in  great  Julius,  the  greater  Shakspeare 
had  to  recognize  the  heart  only  of  a  brother !  How  well 
that  the  thaumaturgic  hand  had  not  to  clip,  and  measure, 
and  adjust,  amid  moth-eaten  cerements  and  rusty  helmets, 
in  order  to  fashion  forth  the  old  Roman  exterior  and  shell 
of  Julius,  but  only  to  cast  asunder  the  gates  of  the  human 
heart  that  those  deathless  notes  might  be  heard,  which  are 
the  undertone  of  human  emotion  in  all  ages,  and  to  show 
us  Julius  himself!  How  well  that  he,  who  was  to  give  to 
the  Anglo-Saxon  tongue  that  tune  it  was  never  to  lose, 
whose  language,  exhaustless  in  range,  in  delicacy,  in  force, 
in  variety,  taking  every  hue  of  thought  and  feeling  as  the 
sky  takes  shade  or  sunshine,  as  the  forest  takes  breeze  or 
calm,  was  to  remain  forever  the  emblem  of  the  multitu- 
dinous life  and  lightly  moved  and  all-conceiving  spirit  of 
the  modern  time,  as  contrasted  with  the  grave  uniformity 


MRS.    BARRETT    BROWNING.  147 

and  petrified  aristocratism  of  antiquity,  was  tempted,  by 
no  familiarity  with  ancient  writings,  to  any  formal  rotundity 
of  diction  or  obscure  involution  of  sentence !  How  dread- 
ful the  thought  that  he,  whose  hall  of  audience,  increasing 
with  civilization,  is  the  world,  he  who  has  moved  a  broader 
stratum  of  human  sympathy  than  any  other  man,  might 
have  passed  into  that  narrow  chamber,  narrowing  with 
every  generation,  in  which  Gray,  Collins,  and  such  erudite 
minstrels  receive  frost-bitten  compliments  from  critics  and 
pedants.  But  it  is  wronging  Shakspeare  to  suppose,  even 
for  a  moment,  that  the  temptation  of  learning  could  have 
overcome  him.  He,  of  all  men,  would  have  been  least  apt 
to  prefer  the  poor  glitter  of  learned  paint  to  God's  sunlight 
of  living  smiles,  the  classic  drops  of  Naiad's  well  or  Casta- 
lian  fountain  to  the  sacred  dew  of  human  tears.  He,  of  all 
men,  would  have  been  least  apt  to  set  the  icy  guerdon  of  a 
pedant's  approbation  above  the  sight  of  simple  emotion, 
welling  irresistibly  from  the  heart  of  a  peasant.  Only, 
when  one  thinks  how  much  learning  has  done  to  veil 
genius  which  it  is  not  absurd  to  name  along  with  Shak- 
speare's,  and  reflects  that  the  throne  of  Milton,  though  of 
the  loftiest,  was  never  raised,  on  its  classic  pedestal,  to  the 
height  of  Shakspeare's,  it  is  impossible  to  suppress  a  sense 
of  satisfaction  that  the  greatest  author  of  mankind  was  not 
learned. 

The  next  thing  for  which,  perhaps  still  more  expressly, 
we  may  be  thankful  in  the  case  of  Shakspeare,  is  the 
complex  fact,  that  he  never  attained  to  consciousness  of  his 
powers,  that  he  heard  not  the  voice  of  his  fame,  and  that 
he  was  never  surrounded  by  a  circle  of  admirers.  Healthy, 
whole-hearted,  it  perhaps  never  occurred  to  him  to  ask 
what  precise  position  he,  Shakspeare,  might  occupy,  in 
relation  to  other  writers.     His   chief  t  life-work,  he  may 


148  MRS.    BARRETT   BROWNING. 

have,  on  the  whole,  concluded,  was  the  realization  of  a 
comfortable  living  in  his  native  Stratford :  one  can  imagine 
him  staggering  in  bewildered  incredulity,  if  the  eyes  of  all 
coming  generations,  hailing  him  as  the  mightiest  of  mere 
men,  had  gleamed  suddenly  in  vision  before  him.  Gruff 
Ben  Jonson,  too,  wishing  he  had  "blotted  a  hundred" 
words  of  his  dramas  instead  of  boasting  that  he  never 
made  an  erasure,  and  the  other  brave  spirits  of  the  Mer- 
maid Tavern  "  whistling  him  down,"  when,  though,  indeed, 
clever,  he  was  becoming  something  of  a  rattle,  were  not 
likely  to  permit  Shakspeare  to  dote  over  his  faults,  to  coax 
him  into  a  belief  that  what  the  general  common  sense 
disliked  in  his  poetry  was  its  peculiar  excellence,  to  make 
him  imagine  that  any  veil  filming  his  genius  was  greater 
than  his  genius  itself.  Hero-worship  is  twice  cursed ;  in 
the  hero  who  is  befooled,  and  in  the  zanies  who  befool  him. 
The  one  is  bewildered  into  extravagance,  like,  shall  we 
say,  Mahomet,  or  enervated  by  conceit,  like,  shall  we  say, 
Wordsworth:  the  other  brings  himself  to  rejoice  in  any 
feast  of  shells,  if  only  it  is  laid  out  by  his  hero.  The  grand 
evil  which  hero-worship  brings  upon  the  literary  hero  is 
confirmation  in  his  mannerism,  instead  of  being  left,  like 
Shakspeare,  and  with  nature  always  assisting  him,  more 
and  more  to  cast  off  his  mannerism  in  the  broad  light  of 
truth.  Living  so  near  Wordsworth  as  this  generation  does, 
and  recalling  many  phenomena  allied  to  that  presented  by 
him,  his  hero-worshippers,  and  their  mutual  relation,  one  is 
tempted  to  say  that  the  peculiar  danger  to  which  literature 
is  in  these  days  exposed  is  that  of  having  mannerisms 
extolled  into  models.  At  all  events,  must  we  not  rejoice 
that  the  subtlest  of  all  poisons  was  never  mingled  in  Shak- 
speare's  cup,  that  he  was  all  unconscious  of  his  praises, 
perhaps  even  of  his  powers,  that,  like  a  great  cataract,  he 
rolled  heedless  down  "  the  dust  of  continents  to  be." 


MRS.    BARRETT   BROWNING.  149 

The  reader  may  not  yet  be  prepared  to  sympathize  with 
me  in  the  feelings  with  which  I  regard  the  poems  of  Mrs. 
Barrett  Browning.  I  cannot  claim  instant  assent,  when, 
though  allowing  that  between  her  and  Shakspeare,  as  well 
as  many  other  men,  there  can  be  instituted  no  comparison, 
I  yet  deliberately  assign  her  the  same  place  among  women 
as  Shakspeare  occupies  among  men.  To  show  ground  for 
this  opinion  will  be,  more  or  less,  the  object  of  all  the 
following  remarks.  But  it  must  at  present  be  allowed  me 
to  declare,  that  no  circumstance  to  which  reference  could 
be  made,  in  connection  with  the  genius  of  Mrs.  Barrett 
Browning,  is  to  me  more  evident  or  distressing,  than  the 
fact  that  it  is  prevented,  by  certain  vailing  clouds  of  esoteric 
culture  and  repelling  mannerism,  from  casting  abroad,  with 
full,  sunlike  charms,  the  rich  magnificence  of  its  power.  If 
it  were  the  homage  of  a  second  rate  applause  that  were 
challenged  for  this  poetess,  —  if  it  was  to  be  mentioned  in 
honor  of  her,  that  she  could  translate  from  Bion  and 
.JEschylus,  and  talk  of  gnomons,  zodiacs,  and  apogees, — 
it  would  be  absurd  to  regret  that  certain  characteristics  of 
her  poetry  withhold  it  from  the  many  and  confine  it  to  the 
few.  But  it  is  the  very  highest  distinction  that  can  be 
•claimed  for  her;  it  is  that  mysterious  power,  to  be  com- 
municated by  no  culture,  and  related  to  learning  as  the 
.living  flower,  rich  in  green  leaf  and  tinted  petal,  is  related 
to  the  wooden  framework  over  which  it  climbs,  which  she 
possesses.  The  power  of  stirring  the  inmost  fountains  of 
laughter  and  tears,  of  bringing  music  from  the  rough  metal 
of  every  day  life,  of  kindling  those  lights  in  human  eyes, 
which  glance  from  scholar  to  rustic,  from  peasant  to  king, 
with  the  gleam  of  recognition,  reconcilement,  and  relation- 
ship, is  hers.  To  this,  all  learning  is  a  very  small  matter. 
And  believing  that  Mrs.  Barrett  Browning  is  gifted  with 
13* 


150  MRS.    BARRETT   BROWNING. 

this,  I  cannot  but  deeply  regret  that  it  is  impeded  in  its 
way  to  that  over  which  such  power  exerts  its  noblest  sway, 
the  general  heart.  Why,  you  cannot  but  ask,  should  the 
words  of  this  woman,  burning  in  their  tenderness,  pene- 
trating in  their  truth,  so  broadly  and  deeply  human  in  their 
application,  not  reach  the  strongly  pulsing  heart  of  common 
humanity  ?  Why  should  not  the  cottage  mother  thrill  with 
the  expression  she  has  given  to  maternal  ecstacy?  Why 
should  not  the  mourner  at  the  village  grave  see  a  beam 
falling  from  heaven  on  the  sod,  at  the  recollection  of  her 
words?  Why  should  not  the  peasant  Christian,  who  re- 
joices to  trace,  with  Bunyan,  the  path  of  the  Pilgrim  from 
the  city  of  destruction  to  the  celestial  gate,  glow  with  a 
still  loftier  emotion,  as  this  great  Christian  singer  casts  for 
him  rays  of  revealing  light,  far  and  deep  into  the  night  of 
history,  over  the  most  mysterious  sublimities  of  human 
destiny  ?  That  all  this  does  not  happen,  that  Mrs.  Brown- 
ing's readers  are  what  is  called  select,  and  that  they  are 
students  rather  than  listeners,  is  a  well  known  fact.  The 
cause  can  be  easily  discovered,  —  a  certain  obscurity,  an 
excessive  demand  on  the  reader; — and  I  cannot  help  think- 
ing that  this  cause  came  to  operate,  partly  through  her 
learning,  (occasioning  un-English  involution  of  style,)  and 
partly,  however  unconscious  she  may  have  been  of  the 
influence,  through  some  hero-worshipping  bray,  proclaiming 
in  her  ears  that  her  obscurities  were  her  beauties.  We  are 
all,  geniuses  and  common  persons,  subject  to  weakness. 
As  one  hears  Mrs.  Browning  talking  of  apogees,  and  ad- 
dressing Lucifer  as  Heosphoros,  and  marks  the  involved 
and  sonorous  Latinity  of  her  style,  he  can  hardly  repel  the 
suggestion,  that  the  weapon  which,  probably  with  con- 
siderable toil,  she  acquired,  with  the  aid  of  her  fellow-men, 
for  herself  was  by  her  deemed  of  greater  value,  than  those 


MRS.    BARRETT    BROWNING.  151 

weapons  which  it  cost  her  no  trouble  to  attain  or  wield, 
and  which  not  man  but  God  had  given  her.  Her  womanly 
humility  even,  her  virgin  modesty,  may  have  hidden  from 
her  the  fact  that  she  could  afford  to  thrust  all  learning  into 
the  background !  As  to  the  other  influence,  the  applause 
of  defects  by  cultivated  pedants,  I  am  far  from  asserting 
that  Mrs.  Barrett  Browning  ever  indulged  in  any  weak, 
Wordsworthian  self-canonization ;  but  in  Casa  Guidi  Win- 
dows, one  of  her  latest  poems,  I  find  the  same  sources  of 
obscurity  as  in  her  earliest,  and  such  as  seemed  at  one 
stage  to  be  clearing  themselves  away;  and  I  cannot  but 
think  that  the  literary  dilettantism  of  the  age,  with  its 
execrable  inversion  of  criticism,  with  its  commendation 
of  what  the  common  heart  does  not  feel,  and  of  what  the 
unsophisticated  mind  will  not  comprehend,  has,  to  some 
extent,  cast  its  enchantment  over  her. 

It  were  a  mistake  to  infer,  from  anything  I  have  said, 
an  ignorance,  on  my  part,  of  the  fact,  that  there  is  a  legiti- 
mate obscurity  attaching  to  certain  kinds  of  composition, 
and  attendant  upon  certain  moods  of  genius.  The  strong 
surge  of  passion,  bearing  a  writer  along,  may  render  him 
incapable  of  attending  to  the  small  niceties  of  composition, 
and  putting  in  those  little  links,  on  which  clearness  depends. 
Shakspeare,  his  heart  and  brain  throbbing  with  the  passion 
and  the  thought  of  a  Samlet,  cannot  point  and  round  his 
sentences  with  such  nice  discrimination,  or  even  keep  his 
ideas  in  such  lucid  sequence,  as  is  easy  for  a  Pope.  A 
Tacitus  will  not  write  so  clearly  as  a  Macaulay.  The 
theme,  too,  may  be  so  remote  from  the  beaten  tracks  of 
thought,  the  ideas  may  so  far  underlie  the  general  growth 
and  efflorescence  of  practical  thinking,  that  effort,  beyond 
what  all  readers  will  give,  is  necessary  to  their  intelligence. 
To  these  considerations  I  would  give  full  weight  in  proceed- 


152  MRS.    BARRETT    BROWNING. 

ing  to  survey  one  or  two  of  Mrs.  Browning's  most  remark- 
able poems ;  but  this  can  be  done  in  perfect  consistency 
with  what  has  been  said. 

The  Drama  of  Exile  is  of  itself  sufficient  at  once  to 
justify  and  to  illustrate  all  I  have  advanced.  Many,  I  doubt 
not,  have  cast  aside  the  poem  in  despair,  ere  proceeding  far 
in  its  perusal;  and  many  more,  after  penetrating  to  the 
end,  have  said,  with  a  feeling  of  honest  regret,  that  they 
had  been  aware  of  the  presence  of  astonishing  genius,  that 
they  had  met  with  many  fine  thoughts,  but  that  the  whole 
seemed  to  them  a  wild  and  wavering  phantasmagoria. 
Yet  this  may  fearlessly  be  pronounced  one  of  the  greatest 
poems  in  the  language  :  of  a  pathos  genuine  and  unfathom- 
able, of  sublimity  exalted,  and  in  which  a  resistless  imagi- 
nation casts  its  lit  eye,  with  a  glance  swifter  than  that  of 
logic,  far  aloft  into  the  regions  of  intellectual  and  religious 
truth.  So  confident  am  I  of  this,  and  so  confident  also  am 
I  that  the  Drama  of  Exile  is  withdrawn  from  the  knowl- 
edge and  admiration  of  thousands  whom  it  might  instruct 
and  delight,  that  I  feel  it  an  august  task  to  attempt,  as  I 
purpose,  indeed,  to  do  in  relation  to  Mrs.  Browning's 
poetry  in  general,  to  wave  aside  the  cloud-drapery,  and 
loosen  forth  some  of  the  notes  of  its  mighty  music. 

The  scene — for  the  form,  though  but  the  form, of  the 
poem,  is  dramatic  —  is  laid  on  the  outer  side  of  the  gate  of 
Eden  on  the  evening  of  the  day  of  the  expulsion,  and 
Adam  and  Eve  are  seen  flying  in  the  distance  along  the 
glare  of  the  flaming  sword.  The  first  speaker  is  Lucifer. 
He  opens  the  poem  with  a  chant  of  exultation  over  God 
and  man,  and  of  haughty  congratulation  to  himself  and  his 
angels.  This  chant  has,  in  its  first  stanza,  one  of  those 
grotesque  rhymes  which  Mrs.  Browning  too  carelessly  per- 
mits, and  by  which,  with  a  fastidiousness  perhaps  somewhat 


MRS.    BARRETT    BROWNING.  153 

feeble  and  excessive,  the  English  reader  is  apt  to  allow  him- 
self to  be  prejudiced  against  a  whole  performance.  One 
might  desiderate,  too,  somewhat  more  of  the  majesty  of 
the  Miltonic  fiend,  to  temper  the  fierce  and  passionate 
boasting  of  Lucifer.  But  the  passage  is  nevertheless  true  in 
conception  and  magnificent  in  execution.  It  is  the  com- 
mencement of  the  poem,  in  the  essential  respect  of  striking 
its  key  note,  of  providing  for  its  catastrophe  or  triumph,  of 
folding  up  the  end  in  the  beginning.  Lucifer,  man's  victor, 
stands  upon  the  earth  which  he  has  conquered,  calls  upon 
his  host  to  arise  through  the  shaken  foundations  of  the 
world,  and  boasts,  with  an  assurance  which  his  very  despair 
seems  to  crown,  that  this  throne  must  remain  his,  since 
it  is  evil,  and  God  himself  cannot  do  other  than  curse  it. 
It  is  necessary  to  quote  this  opening  strain,  and  the  reader 
will  do  well  to  permit  no  slight  offences  to  the  ear  to  turn 
him  aside  from  pondering  it  carefully,  line  by  line. 

w  Rejoice  in  the  clefts  of  Gehenna, 

My  exiled,  my  host ! 
Earth  has  exiles  as  hopeless  as  when  a 

Heaven's  empire  was  lost. 
Through  the  seams  of  her  shaken  foundations, 

Smoke  up  in  great  joy ! 
With  the  smoke  of  your  fierce  exultations 

Deform  and  destroy ! 
Smoke  up  with  your  lurid  revenges, 

And  darken  the  face 
Of  the  white  heavens,  and  taunt  them  with  changes 

From  glory  and  grace. 
We,  in  falling,  while  destiny  strangles, 

Pull  down  with  us  all. 
Let  them  look  to  the  rest  of  their  angels ! 

Who 's  safe  from  a  fall  ? 


loi  MRS.    BARRETT    BROWNING. 

HE  saves  not.    Where 's  Adam  ?     Can  pardon 

Requicken  that  sod  ? 
Unkinged  is  the  King  of  the  Garden, 

The  image  of  God 
Other  exiles  are  cast  out  of  Eden,  — 

More  curse  has  been  hurled ! 
Come  up,  O  my  locusts,  and  feed  in 

The  green  of  the  world  1 
Come  up  !  we  have  conquered  by  evil. 

Good  reigns  not  alone. 
I  prevail  now !  and,  angel  or  devil, 

Inherit  a  throne !" 

The  pure  intellectual  might  —  the  strict  metaphysical 
truth — displayed  in  the  Drama  of  Mcile,  is  precisely  on  a 
level  with  its  consummate  poetry.  Satanic  motives  and 
emotions  may  be  beyond  the  reach  of  human  searching, 
but  when  we  penetrate  as  far  as  reason  and  imagination  can 
carry  us,  we  find  nothing  deeper  than  reliance  on  evil  in 
itself,  and  a  belief,  never  shaken  from  old  eternity,  that  the 
bond  between  woe  and  sin  cannot  be  severed  by  the  hand 
even  of  the  Almighty,  that  not  even  God  can  take  from  the 
devil  his  crown  of  thorns.  Mrs.  Browning's  fifth  stanza,  in 
the  piece  I  have  quoted,  is  a  superb  expression  of  this  reli- 
ance and  this  belief,  and  by  broadly  exhibiting  these  in  the 
outset,  she  lays  the  stablest  possible  foundation,  in  meta- 
physic  truth,  for  her  whole  poem. 

To  this  chant  of  Lucifer's  there  succeeds  a  dialogue 
between  Gabriel  and  the  fiend.  Its  tone  is  at  first  half 
Miltonic,  half  Byronic.  The  first  piece  of  unmistakable 
originality  it  contains  is  the  following  remarkable  passage. 
It  is  by  no  means  entirely  unexceptionable,  but  deserves 
our  best  attention  from  that  free  strength  of  imagination, 
which  introduces,  in  contrast  to  the  tumult  of  the  Miltonic 


MRS.    BARRETT    BROWNING.  155 

contests  between  fiend  and  angel,  the  truer  and  more  awful 
idea  of  the  calm  potency  of  light,  on  the  one  hand,  and 
blank  despair  written,  by  the  very  calmness  of  its  beam,  on 
the  visages  of  the  rebel  angels,  on  the  other.  The  style  of 
delineation,  besides,  is  highly  characteristic  of  the  poetess. 
The  occasion  of  the  lines  is  found  in  an  allusion  made  by 
Gabriel  to  divine  and  angelic  pity. 

"Lucifer.  *         *         As  it  is,  I  know 

Something  of  pity.     When  I  reeled  in  Heaven, 
And  my  sword  grew  too  heavy  for  my  grasp, 
Stabbing  through  matter  which  it  could  not  pierce 
So  much  as  the  first  shell  of,  —  toward  the  throne  ; 
When  I  fell  back,  down,  —  staring  up  as  I  fell,  — 
The  lightnings  holding  open  my  scathed  lids, 
And  that  thought  of  the  infinite  of  God, 
Hurled  after  to  precipitate  descent ; 
When  countless  angel  faces  still  and  stern 
Pressed  out  upon  me  from  the  level  heavens 
Adown  the  abysmal  spaces,  and  I  fell 
Trampled  down  by  your  stillness,  and  struck  blind 
By  the  sight  within  your  eyes,  —  't  was  then  I  knew 
How  ye  could  pity,  my  kind  angelhood ! " 

The  dialogue  between  Lucifer  and  Gabriel  ended,  and 
Adam  and  Eve  still  seen  flying  along  the  sword-glare,  a 
Chorus  of  the  Spirits  of  Eden  sends,  from  within  the  walls 
of  Paradise,  a  chant  of  melancholy  condolence  and  farewell 
after  the  exiles.  The  idea  embodied  in  the  varying  music 
of  this  chant  of  the  Spirits,  is  the  sorrow,  pervading  the 
whole  world  of  Eden, — its  streams,  its  trees,  its  flowers, — 
on  account  of  the  departure  of  the  human  pair.  To  bring 
out  such  a  thought,  in  prominent  poetic  manifestation,  was 
an  evident  necessity  in  any  treatment  of  the  subject,  and 
Mrs.  Browning  performs  the  task  with  opulence  and  deli- 


156  MRS     BARRETT   BROWNING. 

cacy  of  fancy,  with  great  powers  of  thought,  and  with 
exquisite  tenderness  of  feeling.  But  the  personification  is 
not  happy,  and  the  pathos  would  have  trickled  with  far 
more  deep  and  dew-like  power  on  the  heart,  had  there  been 
less  about  songs  built  up  note  over  note  until  they  "  strike  the 
arch  of  the  Infinite  "  and  silence  shivering,  and  shadings  off 
to  resonances,  and  such  like  touches  of  gorgeous  feebleness, 
to  which  Mrs.  Browning  declines,  when  learning  and  crit- 
icism turn  her  from  the  clear  monitions  of  her  own  genius, 
and  the  simplicity  of  nature,  to  make  her  mock  herself. 

In  the  next  scene,  we  emerge  more  into  the  kindly  blue 
of  pure,  plain,  human  feeling.  For  the  first  time,  we  are 
made  unmistakably  aware  that  our  guide  is  a  woman  ;  not 
from  any  weakness,  not  from  any  sameliness  or  extrava- 
gance, but  from  the  access  of  elements  of  pathos  and 
beauty,  which  no  man  could  have  commanded,  and  belong- 
ing only  to  one,  whose  womanliness  is  as  intense  as  her 
genius  is  consummate.  A  broad  gleam  of  softest  light, 
dewy,  beautiful,  original,  like  a  stream  of  sunlight  falling 
through  a  shower  on  a  rugged  hill  side,  is  cast  over  the 
tragical  realities  of  her  theme,  from  the  feminine  knowledge 
and  womanly  sympathy  of  Mrs.  Browning.  Eve,  in  distress 
and  despair,  accuses  herself  of  having  brought  the  great 
woe  upon  Adam,  and  adjures  him  to  bring  down  at  once 
the  curse  of  death  on  her,  "  for  so, "  says  she,  "  perchance, 
thy  God  might  take  thee  into  grace  for  scorning  me  ;  thy 
wrath  against  the  sinner  giving  proof  of  inward  abrogation 
of  the  sin. " 

Adam  replies. 

"If  God, 

Who  gave  the  right  and  joyaunce  of  the  world 
Both  unto  thee  and  me,  —  gave  thee  to  me, 


MRS.    BARRETT    BROWNING.  157 

The  best  gift  last,  the  last  sin  was  the  worst, 
Which  sinned  against  more  complement  of  gifts 
And  grace  in  giving.     God !  I  render  back 
Strong  benediction  and  perpetual  praise 
From  mortal,  feeble  lips  (as  incense-smoke, 
Out  of  a  little  censer,  may  fill  heaven), 
That  Thou,  in  striking  my  benumbed  hands 
And  forcing  them  to  drop  all  other  boons 
Of  beauty,  and  dominion,  and  delight,  — 
Hast  left  this  well-beloved  Eve  —  this  life 
Within  life  —  this  best  gift  —  between  their  palms, 
In  gracious  compensation  ! " 

All  can  sympathize  with  this  !    And  with  this: — 

"Eve.  Is  it  thy  voice  ? 

Or  some  saluting  angel's  —  calling  home 
My  feet  into  the  garden  ? 

Adam.  O  my  God ! 

I,  standing  here  between  the  glory  and  dark,  — 
The  glory  of  thy  wrath  projected  forth 
From  Eden's  wall,  the  dark  of  our  distress 
Which  settles  a  step  off  in  that  drear  world,  — 
Lift  up  to  Thee  the  hands  from  whence  hath  fallen 
Only  creation's  sceptre,  —  thanking  Thee 
That  rather  Thou  hast  cast  me  out  with  her 
Than  left  me  lorn  of  her  in  Paradise, 
With  angel  looks  and  angel  songs  around 
To  show  the  absence  of  her  eyes  and  voice, 
And  make  society  full  desertness 
Without  her  use  in  comfort." 


The  scene,  however,  soon  changes,  and  the  action  of  the 
poem  becomes  of  more  dark  and  terrible  interest.  Lucifer 
again  appears,  and  the  dialogue  is  sustained  between  him 

FIRST   SERIES.  14 


158  MRS.    BARRETT   BROWNING. 

and  the  exiled  pair.    Passages  of  power  and  pathos  abound 
in  this  part. 

11  Adam.     Ay,  mock  me !  now  I  know  more  than  I  knew : 
Now  I  know  thou  art  fallen  below  hope 
Of  final  re-ascent. 

Lucifer.  Because  ? 

Adam.  Because 

A  spirit  who  expected  to  see  God 
Though  at  tha  last  point  of  a  million  years, 
Could  dare  no  mockery  of  a  ruined  man 
Such  as  this  Adam. 

Lucifer.  *  *  *  *        . 

****** 

Is  it  not  possible,  by  sin  and  grief 

(To  give  the  things  your  names)  that  spirits  should  rise 

Instead  of  falling  ? 

Adam.  Most  impossible. 

The  Highest  being  the  Holy  and  the  Glad, 
Whoever  rises  must  approach  delight 
And  sanctity  in  the  act" 

The  pathos  in  the  first  of  these  lines  is  very  noble.  The 
thought  with  which  they  conclude  is  an  impressive  illustra- 
tion of  what  has  been  advanced,  touching  the  intellectual 
substance  of  this  poem.  It  is  one  of  the  great  lights  or- 
dained by  God  perennially  to  burn  in  the  heaven  of  truth, 
dividing  moral  day  from  moral  night ;  and  its  calm,  celes- 
tial effulgence  casts  into  pale  and  sickly  pining  that  "wor- 
ship of  sorrow,"  which,  in  the  hands  of  Goethe  and  Carlyle, 
is  but  the  sublime  of  sentimentalism,  in  spite  of  the  grain 
of  living  truth,  summed  up  by  St.  Paul  in  one  verse,  which 
it  does  contain. 

As  Lucifer  disappears,  there  is  heard  a  low  music,  prov- 


MRS.    BARRETT    BROWNING.  159 

ing  to  be  "The  Song  of  the  Morning  Star  to  Lucifer." 
This  is  one  of  those  portions  of  the  poem  which  cannot 
fail  to  repel  many  readers.  The  song  of  the  star  may  be 
as  good  as  the  theme  rendered  possible ;  but  it  has  no  hold 
on  human  sympathy,  and  attains,  for  beauty,  only  a  cold, 
unsatisfactory  gorgeousness.  Perhaps  no  poet  could  make 
you  feel  for  a  star,  and  certainly  no  person  will  feel  in  this 
instance.  The  piece  plays,  as  will  be  seen,  an  important 
part  in  the  evolution  of  the  poem,  but  must  in  itself  be  pro- 
nounced in  no  sense  felicitous. 

The  next  scene  is  one  of  the  longest  and  most  important 
in  the  poem.  The  exiles  are  now  far  out  in  the  desert,  and 
the  night  is  thickening  round  them.  The  farewells  of  the 
Eden  Spirits  have  died  away.  The  shadow  of  the  curse  is 
on  the  face  of  the  world.     The  change  is  thus  announced. 

"Adam.     How  doth  the  wide  and  melancholy  earth 
Gather  her  hills  aroand  us,  gray  and  ghast, 
And  stare  with  blank  significance  of  loss 
Eight  in  our  faces  !    Is  the  wind  up  ? 

Eve.  Kay. 

Adam.     And  yet  the  cedars  and  the  junipers 
Rock  slowly  through  the  mist,  without  a  sound  \ 
And  shapes  which  have  no  certainty  of  shape 
Drift  duskly  in  and  out  among  the  pines, 
And  loom  along  the  edges  of  the  hills, 
And  he  flat,  curdling  in  the  open  ground— 
Shadows  without  a  body,  which  contract 
And  lengthen  as  we  gaze  on  them." 

The  meaning  of  this  becomes  gradually  apparent.  We 
have  now  the  reverse  of  that  soft  music,  in  which  the  Eden 
Spirits  had  bidden  adieu  to  those  who  were  among  them 
the  centre  of  all  blessing.     To  the  outer  world  the  man 


160  MRS.    BARRETT   BROWNING. 

and  woman  bring  a  curse,  and  they  are  received  with  the 
grim  welcome  of  universal  execration.  The  mode  in  which 
the  poetess  has  chosen  to  body  forth  this  detestation  of  all 
creatures  for  those  who  have  brought  them  sin,  is  singular 
rather  than  happy,  and  would  have  gained  in  effect  by  gain- 
ing in  simplicity.  The  signs  of  the  zodiac  become  instinct 
with  life,  and  stand  in  horrid  circle  round  Adam  and  Eve. 
From  that  circle  "  of  the  creatures'  cruelty,"  they  cannot 
escape,  and  within  it  the  spirits  of  organic  and  inorganic 
nature  arise  to  taunt  and  curse  them. 

That  this  conception  is  strong  and  original,  it  would  be 
hard  to  deny.  But  it  can  be  wholly  defended  neither  from 
the  charge  of  extravagance  nor  from  that  of  obscurity. 
The  passage  abounds  in  masterly  delineation,  and  the  hor- 
ror and  anguish,  gradually  darkening  down  like  the  night 
upon  the  human  pair,  arising  from  the  contempt  and  hatred 
of  those  creatures  over  which  they  had  been  appointed  to 
reign,  are  very  powerfully  expressed.  I  can  quote  but  one 
stanza.  It  may  convey  some  idea  of  the  spirit  and  intent 
of  the  whole,  but  none  at  all  of  the  execution.  The  spirit 
of  inorganic  nature  speaks. 

"  I  feel  your  steps,  O  wandering  sinners,  strike 
A  sense  of  death  to  me  and  undug  graves ! 
The  heart  of  earth,  once  calm,  is  trembling  like 

The  ragged  foam  along  the  ocean-waves : 
The  restless  earthquakes  rock  against  each  other ;  — 
The  elements  moan  round  me  —  'Mother,  mother* — 
And  I  wail!" 

Lucifer  suddenly  rises  in  the  circle,  but  only  to  increase 
the  anguish  of  the  exiles,  now  approaching  its  climax.  Lu- 
cifer, fierce  and  remorseless,  launches  at  them  this  bolt,  the 
more  piercing  in  its  agony  that  it  is  winged  with  truth :  — 


MRS.    BARRETT   BROWNING.  1G1 

"  Your  sin  is  but  your  grief  in  the  rebound 
And  cannot  expiate  for  it." 

Hardly  a  line  now  occurs  but  might  be  quoted.  The  foL. 
lowing  passage,  however,  cannot  be  passed  by.  It  is  im- 
portant, not  so  much  in  its  bearing  on  the  catastrophe  of 
the  poem  at  the  stage  at  which  we  have  now  arrived,  as  in 
its  peculiar  and  felicitous  exhibition  of  Mrs.  Browning's 
mode  of  imaginative  conception  and  handling.  The  lines 
in  which  Lucifer  applies  to  himself  the  comparison  of  the 
lion  are  too  long  to  quote. 

i 
"Lucifer.     Dost  thou  remember,  Adam,  when  the  curse 

Took  us  in  Eden  ?     On  a  mountain-peak 

Half-sheathed  in  primal  woods  and  glittering 

In  spasms  of  awful  sunshine,  at  that  hour 

A  lion  couched,  —  part  raised  upon  his  paws, 

With  his  calm,  massive  face  turned  full  on  thine, 

And  his  mane  listening.     When  the  ended  curse 

Left  silence  in  the  world,  —  right  suddenly 

He  sprang  up  rampant  and  stood  straight  and  stiff, 

As  if  the  new  reality  of  death 

Were  dashed  against  his  eyes,  —  and  roared  so  fierce 

(Such  thick  carnivorous  passion  in  his  throat 

Tearing  a  passage  through  the  wrath  and  fear), 

And  roared  so  wild,  and  smote  from  all  the  hills 

Such  fast,  keen  echoes  crumbling  down  the  vales 

Precipitately,  —  that  the  forest  beasts, 

One  after  one,  did  mutter  a  response 

Of  savage  and  of  sorrowful  complaint 

Which  trailed  along  the  gorges.     Then,  at  once, 

He  fell  back,  and  rolled  crashing  from  the  height 

Into  the  dusk  of  pines. 

Adam.  It  might  have  been. 

I  heard  the  curse  alone." 

14*  „   .... 


162  MRS.    BARRETT   BROWNING. 

No  hand  but  Mrs.  Browning's  could  have  drawn  that 
picture  of  the  lion.  The  pathos  of  Adam's  last  words  is 
sublime ;  and,  so  far  as  I  know,  original.  In  IsobePs  Child, 
a  later  poem  of  Mrs.  Browning's,  there  occur  the  following 
words,  the  person  addressed  being  one  of  the  redeemed, 
and  the  time  the  day  of  judgment :  — 

"  Thrones  and  seraphim, 
Through  the  long  ranks  of  their  solemnities, 
Sunning  thee  with  calm  looks  of  Heaven's  surprise  — 
Thy  look  alone  on  Him." 

This  idea  has  often  been  expressed,  but  I  do  not  remember 
an  instance  in  which  the  opposite  note,  in  the  same  grand 
harmony  of  pathos,  is  struck.  Mrs.  Browning  has  given 
both. 

The  attention  of  the  reader  is  now  drawn  studiously  to 
Lucifer,  as  if  the  poetess  had  some  purpose  with  him. 
"With  strange  dauntlessness,  does  this  marvellous  woman 
gaze  down  into  the  depths  of  Satanic  misery. 

"Lucifer.  *  *  *  * 

I  the  snake,  I  the  tempter,  I  the  cursed,  — 
To  whom  the  highest  and  the  lowest  alike 
Say,  Go  from  us  —  we  have  no  need  of  thee,  — 
Was  made  by  God  like  others.     Good  and  fair, 
He  did  create  me  !  —  ask  Him,  if  not  fair ! 
Ask,  if  I  caught  not  fair  and  silverly 
His  blessing  for  chief  angels  on  my  head 
Until  it  grew  there,  a  crown  crystallized ! 
Ask,  if  He  never  called  me  by  my  name, 
Lucifer — kindly  said  as  '  Gabriel' — 
Lucifer  —  soft  as  '  Michael ! '  while  serene 
I,  standing  in  the  glory  of  the  lamps, 
Answered  '  my  Father,'  innocent  of  shame 
And  of  the  sense  of  thunder.         *        *        * 


MRS.    BARRETT    BROWNING.  163 


Pass  along 
Your  wilderness  vain  mortals !     Puny  griefs, 
In  transitory  shapes,  be  henceforth  dwarfed 
To  your  own  conscience  by  the  dread  extremes 
Of  what  I  am  and  have  been.     If  ye  have  fallen, 
It  is  but  a  step's  fall,  —  the  whole  ground  beneath 
Strewn  woolly  soft  with  promise !  if  ye  have  sinned, 
Your  prayers  tread  high  as  angels !  if  ye  have  grieved, 
Ye  are  too  mortal  to  be  pitiable, 
The  power  to  die  disproves  the  right  to  grieve. 


*  *         Increase  and  multiply, 

Ye  and  your  generations,  in  all  plagues, 
Corruptions,  melancholies,  poverties, 
And  hideous  forms  of  life  and  fears  of  death, — 
The  thought  of  death  being  always  eminent, 
Immovable  and  dreadful  in  your  life, 
And  deafly  and  dumbly  insignificant 
Of  any  hope  beyond,  —  as  death  itself,  — 
Whichever  of  you  lieth  dead  the  first,  — 
Shall  seem  to  the  survivor  —  yet  rejoice  ! 
My  curse  catch  at  you  strongly,  body  and  soul, 
And  HE  find  no  redemption  —  nor  the  wing 
Of  seraph  move  your  way  —  and  yet  rejoice ! 
Rejoice,  —  because  ye  have  not  set  in  you 
This  hate  which  shall  pursue  you  —  this  forehate 
"Which  glares  without,  because  it  burns  within  — 
Which  kills  from  ashes  —  this  potential  hate 
Wherein  I,  angel,  in  antagonism 
To  God  and  His  reflex  beatitudes, 
Moan  ever  in  the  central  universe 
With  the  great  woe  of  striving  against  Love  — 
And  gasp  for  space  amid  the  Infinite  — 
And  toss  for  rest  amid  the  Desertness  — 


164  MRS.    BARRETT   BROWNING. 

Self-orphaned  by  my  will,  and  self-elect 

To  kingship  of  resistant  agony 

Toward  the  good  round  me  —  hating  good  and  love 

And  willing  to  hate  good  and  to  hate  love, 

And  willing  to  will  on  so  evermore, 

Scorning  the  Past,  and  damning  the  To  Come  — 

Go  and  rejoice !  I  curse  you  !  t 

Milton  never  sent  a  plummet  so  far  down  into  the  depths 
of  Satanic  anguish!  And  if  we  earnestly  ponder,  with 
what  amount  of  scientific  precision  is  possible  in  the  case, 
wherein  that  anguish  must  consist,  we  shall,  I  think,  arrive 
at  the  conclusion  of  the  poetess.  Precisely  in  this  neces- 
sity of  sorrow  where  there  is  persistence  in  ill,  —  precisely 
in  the  inevitable  arrangement  that  the  being  personifying 
sin  must  personify  also  that  pain  which  is  the  essence  of  all 
its  influence  subjective  and  objective,  —  precisely  in  being 
eternally  blasted  by  the  rays  of  Light  and  Love  defied,  — 
must  lie  the  deepest  reality  of  Satanic  woe. 

After  a  further  elaboration  of  melancholy  circumstance, 
rather  retarding  than  advancing  the  action  of  the  poem, 
the  humiliation  and  despair  of  the  wanderers  reaches  its 
climax.  Adam  and  Eve,  able  to  resist  no  longer,  appeal  to 
the  Deliverer  who  has  been  promised.  Then  comes  the 
change  for  which  we  have  been  so  long  prepared.  A  vision 
of  Christ  appears.  The  circle  which  had  enclosed  the 
human  pair  "pales  before  the  heavenly  light,"  and  the  spir- 
its of  creation,  pouring,  until  now,  their  indignation  on  the 
head  of  the  man  and  the  woman,  give  signs  of  alarm  and 
dismay. 

The  Saviour  thus  stills  the  tumult  of  the  rage  and  hatred 
of  the  creatures. 

"Christ.  Spirits  of  the  earth, 

I  meet  you  with  rebuke  for  the  reproach 


MRS.    BARRETT   BROWNING.  165 

And  cruel  and  unmitigated  blame 

Ye  cast  upon  your  masters.        *         *         * 

This  regent  and  sublime  Humanity 

Though  fallen,  exceeds  you  !  this  shall  film  your  sun, 

Shall  hunt  your  lightning  to  its  lair  of  cloud, 

Turn  back  your  rivers,  footpath  all  your  seas, 

Lay  flat  your  forests,  master  with  a  look 

Your  lion  at  his  fasting,  and  fetch  down 

Your  eagle  flying,         *  *  * 

*  *  *  *  *  *}» 

Then  occurs  another  of  those  inimitable  passages,  in 
which  Mrs.  Browning  is  peculiarly  herself;  in  which  she 
vindicates  for  her  sex  the  distinction  that  a  woman  and 
not  man  has  written  of  it  most  nobly.  In  fitness  of  con- 
ception, in  terseness  of  diction,  in  loftiness  of  thought,  the 
following  lines  have  all  that  the  genius  of  a  man  could  im- 
part :  while  the  thrill  of  deeper  tenderness  pervading  them 
tells,  in  unmistakable  accents,  of  a  heart  which  can  throb 
with  wifely  emotion,  and  a  breast  on  which  a  babe,  sleeping 
in  the  light  of  its  mother's  smile,  may  rest.  In  all  great 
poems,  there  are  many  lesser  poems,  complete  in  them- 
selves ;  and  this  passage  may  be  regarded  as  a  poem,  on 
the  duties  and  joys  of  woman,  by  Mrs.  Browning.  It 
occurs  in  the  form  of  a  blessing,  pronounced  by  Adam,  at 
the  command  of  Christ,  on  Eve.  I  regret  that  it  is  too 
long  to  be  quoted  entire. 

"Adam.        *        *        Henceforward,  rise,  aspire 
To  all  the  calms  and  magnanimities, 
The  lofty  uses  and  the  noble  ends, 
The  sanctified  devotion  and  full  work, 
To  which  thou  art  elect  for  evermore, 
First  woman,  wife,  and  mother. 

Eve.  And  first  in  sin. 


166  MRS.    BARRETT    BROWNING. 

Adam.     And  also  the  sole  bearer  of  the  Seed 
Whereby  sin  dieth !     Raise  the  majesties 
Of  thy  disconsolate  brows,  O  well-beloved, 
And  front  with  level  eyelids  the  To  Come, 
And  all  the  dark  o'  the  world.     Rise,  woman,  rise 
To  thy  peculiar  and  best  altitudes 
Of  doing  good  and  of  enduring  ill,  — 
Of  comforting  for  ill,  and  teaching  good, 
t     And  reconciling  all  that  ill  and  good 
Unto  the  patience  of  a  constant  hope,  — 
Rise  with  thy  daughters !    If  sin  came  by  thee, 
And  by  sin,  death,  —  the  ransom-righteousness, 
The  heavenly  light  and  compensative  rest 
Shall  come  by  means  of  thee.     If  woe  by  thee 
Had  issue  to  the  world,  thou  shalt  go  forth 
An  angel  of  the  woe  thou  didst  achieve, 
Found  acceptable  to  the  world  instead 
Of  others  of  that  name,  of  whose  bright  steps 
Thy  deed  stripped  bare  the  hills.     Be  satisfied ; 
Something  thou  hast  to  bear  through  womanhood, 
Peculiar  suffering  answering  to  the  sin,  — 
Some  pang  paid  down  for  each  new  human  life, 
Some  weariness  in  guarding  such  a  life, 
Some  coldness  from  the  guarded ;  some  mistrust 
From  those  thou  hast  too  well  served ;  from  those  beloved 
Too  loyally  some  treason  ;  feebleness 
Within  thy  heart,  and  cruelty  without, 
And  pressures  of  an  alien  tyranny 
With  its  dynastic  reasons  of  larger  bones 
And  stronger  sinews.     But,  go  to !     Thy  love 
Shall  chant  itself  its  own  beatitudes, 
After  its  own  life-working.     A  child's  kiss 
Set  on  thy  sighing  lips  shall  make  thee  glad ; 
A  poor  man  served  by  thee,  shall  make  thee  rich ; 
A  sick  man  helped  by  thee,  shall  make  thee  strong 
Thou  shalt  be  served  thyself  by  every  sense 
Of  service  which  thou  rcnderest.       *         *         * 


MRS.    BARRETT   BROWNING.  167 

*****  * 

Eve.        *  *  *        I  accept 

For  me  and  for  my  daughters  this  high  part 
Which  lowly  shall  be  counted.    Noble  work 
Shall  hold  me  in  the  place  of  garden  rest, 
And  in  the  place  of  Eden's  lost  delight 
Worthy  endurance  of  permitted  pain  ; 
While  on  my  longest  patience  there  shall  wait 
Death's  speechless  angel,  smiling  in  the  east 
Whence  cometh  the  cold  wind." 

Every  sentence  here  is  full  of  meaning  and  pathos,  mean- 
ing which  every  mind  can  apprehend,  pathos  which  every 
heart  can  feel. 

High,  however,  as  has  been  the  flight  of  the  poetess 
hitherto,  she  may  be  said  to  have  yet  unfolded  but  the 
minor  sublimities  of  her  song.  Christ,  who  has  until  now 
stood  before  the  exiles  in  the  majesty  of  his  Divine  nature, 
takes  the  aspect  of  humanity  and  suffering,  and  proceeds 
to  predict  for  them  his  own  great  anguish  and  the  accom- 
plishment of  their  supreme  hope.  To  execute  so  daring  an 
attempt  on  the  part  of  the  poetess, — to  put  words  into  the 
mouth  of  the  Saviour  foretelling  his  own  humiliation,  with 
perfect  preservation  of  Christian  reverence,  yet  with  an 
energy  befitting  the  theme,  and  poetic  beauty  embracing 
the  whole,  —  was  a  task  of  overpowering  difficulty.  Mrs. 
Browning  has  performed  it  in  a  way  not  unworthy  of  Mil- 
ton. The  Saviour  announces  first  his  own  crucifixion,  and 
his  being  forsaken  of  the  Father.  This  is  done  in  a  passion 
of  perhaps  overstrained  sublimity.  To  personify  eternity 
would  have  tasked  the  genius  of  Milton  and  Shakspeare 
combined,  and  it  is  high  praise  to  Mrs.  Browning  to  say 
that,  thus  personifying,  she  has  not  absolutely  failed :  but 
first  to  personify  eternity,  and  then  to  represent  its  silent 


168  MRS     BARRETT   BROWNING. 

astonishment  at  the  death  of  Christ,  was  surely,  in  concep- 
tion at  least,  as  magnificent  as  daring. 

"  Eternity  stands  alway  fronting  God ; 
A  stern  colossal  image,  with  blind  eyes 
And  grand  dim  lips  that  murmur  evermore 
God,  God,  God !  *  *  * 

****** 

Eternity  shall  wax  as  dumb  as  Death, 
While  a  new  voice  beneath  the  spheres  shall  cry, 
*  God !  why  hast  Thou  forsaken  me,  my  God  ? ' 
And  not  a  voice  in  Heaven  shall  answer  it." 

From  his  own  sufferings,  Christ  passes  to  the  blessings 
of  which  they  are  the  source  to  mankind.  Only  a  part  of 
this  superb  passage  can  be  quoted. 

"In  my  brow 
Of  kingly  whiteness,  shall  be  crowned  anew 
Your  discrowned  human  nature.     Look  on  me  I 
As  I  shall  be  uplifted  on  a  cross 
In  darkness  of  eclipse  and  anguish  dread. 
So  shall  I  lift  up  in  my  pierced  hands, 
Not  into  dark,  but  light  —  not  unto  death, 
But  life,  —  beyond  the  reach  of  guilt  and  grief, 
The  whole  creation.     Henceforth  in  my  name 
Take  courage,  O  thou  woman,  —  man,  take  hope  ! 
Your  grave  shall  be  as  smooth  as  Eden's  sward, 
Beneath  the  steps  of  your  prospective  thoughts, 
And,  one  step  past  it,  a  new  Eden  gate 
Shall  open  on  a  hinge  of  harmony 
And  let  you  through  to  mercy.     Ye  shall  fall 
No  more,  within  that  Eden,  nor  pass  out 
Any  more  from  it.     In  which  hope,  move  on, 
First  sinners  and  first  mourners.     Live  and  love,  — 
Doing  both  nobly,  because  lowlily ! 


MRS.    BARRETT   BROWNING.  169 

Live  and  work,  strongly,  —  because  patiently  1 

And,  for  the  deed  of  death,  trust  it  to  God 

That  it  be  well  done,  unrepented  of, 

And  not  to  loss.     And  thence,  with  constant  prayers 

Fasten  your  souls  so  high,  that  constantly 

The  smile  of  your  heroic  cheer  may  float 

Above  all  floods  of  earthly  agonies, 

Purification  being  the  joy  of  pain ! " 

Christ  departs.  The  spirits  of  the  earth  sing  in  submis- 
sion and  commiseration.  Choruses  of  angels  chant  the 
glories  of  redemption  and  the  triumphs  of  the  Redeemer. 

"  When  your  bodies  therefore 
.     .  Reach  the  grave  their  goal, 

Softly  will  we  care  for 

Each  enfranchised  soul ! 

***** 
*  *  *      *      * 

From  the  empyrean  centre 

Heavenly  voices  shall  repeat, 
*  Souls  redeemed  and  pardoned,  enter, 

For  the  chrism  on  you  is  sweet.' 
And  every  angel  in  the  place 
Lowlily  shall  bow  his  face, 

Folded  fair  on  softened  sounds, 
Because  upon  your  hands  and  feet 

He  images  his  Master's  wounds  I" 

"  The  last  enemy,"  it  is  written,  "  that  shall  be  overcome 
is  death."  This  final  conquest  shall  close  the  roll  of  the 
Saviour's  victories.  But  what  hand  so  bold  as  attempt  the 
delineation  of  that  crowning  triumph?  Mrs.  Browning, 
gazing,  with  her  woman's  eye,  where  Michael  Angelo's 
might  have  blenched,  has  dared  to  depict  Christ  taming 
the  steed  of  Death.  The  piece  is  the  last  of  those  poems 
15 


170  MRS.    BARRETT   BROWNING. 

within  this  poem,  which,  never  transgressing  the  grand 
law  of  rythmic  and  imaginative  harmony,  in  obedience 
to  which  they  all  move,  have  yet  a  beauty,  as  of  separate 
stars  in  a  constellation,  pertaining  to  themselves  alone. 
The  extracts  I  have  already  made  occupy  so  much  space 
that  I  cannot  quote  this  remarkable  passage :  but  let  any 
one  dispassionately,  and  making  allowance  for  certain  ex- 
travagances and  obscurities,  consider  its  conception  and 
execution,  —  the  descent  of  Christ  into  Hades  to  guide 
the  Death-steed  calmly,  from  amid  the  moaning  and  trem- 
bling ranks  of  the  lost, — the  last  journey  of  the  pale  horse 
up  through  immensity,  while  the  planets  become  ashen 
gray  and  motionless  as  stones  —  up  towards  the  crystal 
ceiling  of  heaven,  through  ranks  of  angels  paling  at  the 
sight  —  up  straight  to  the  Throne  —  where  the  eye  of 
Jehovah,  looking  out  in  the  light  of  life  essential,  strikes 
upon  the  phantasm,  and,  "  meek  as  a  lamb  at  pasture,"  it 
staggers,  shivers,  expires,  —  and  then  decide  whether  there 
is  here  a  mighty  and  marvellous  imagination,  or  whether 
there  is  not. 

But  the  poem  is  not  yet  ended.  The  full  circle  of  its 
great  unity  is  not  completed.  It  opened  with  that  exultant 
song  of  Lucifer's,  in  which  he  boasted  over  man,  and  in 
which  the  lurid  joy  of  a  revenge  that  could  not  be  balked 
tinged  the  darkness  of  his  despair.  The  jewel  in  the  Cre- 
ator's crown,  which  he  had  blackened  and  blasted  by  sin, 
could  not  surely  be  taken  from  him:  the  light  of  God, 
meeting  sin,  must  turn  into  lightning  to  afflict  and  destroy. 
But  now,  amid  the  rejoicing  angel  voices,  is  heard  a  strange 
cry. 

"First  voice.     Gabriel,  O  Gabriel ! 
Second  voice.     What  wouldst  thou  with  me  ? 


MRS.    BARRETT   BROWNING.  171 

First  voice.    Is  it  true,  O  thou  Gabriel,  that  the  crown 
Of  sorrow,  which  I  claimed,  another  claims  ? 
That  HE  claims  THAT  too  ? 

Second  voice.     Lost  one,  it  is  true. 

First  voice.    That  HE  will  be  an  exile  from  His  Heaven, 
To  lead  those  exiles  homeward  ? 

Second  voice.  It  is  true. 

First  voice.     That  HE  will  be  an  exile  by  His  will, 
As  I  by  mine  election  ? 

Second  voice.     It  is  true. 

First  voice.     That  I  shall  stand  sole  exile  finally, — 
Made  desolate  for  fruition  ? 

Second  voice.     It  is  true. 

-First  voice.  Gabriel. 

Second  voice.  I  hearken. 

First  voice.  Is  it  true  besides— 

Aright  true  —  that  mine  orient  Star  will  give 
Her  name  of  i  Bright  and  Morning  Star*  to  Him,— 
And  take  the  fairness  of  his  virtue  back, 
To  cover  loss  and  sadness  ? 

Second  voice.     It  is  true. 

First  voice.    Untrue,  untrue !    O  Morning  Star !    O  MINE. 
Who  sittest  secret  in  a  veil  of  light 
Ear  up  the  starry  spaces,  say  —  Untrue  ! 
Speak  but  so  loud  as  doth  a  wasted  moon 
To  Tyrrhene  waters !     I  am  Lucifer  — 

[A  pause.     Silence  in  the  stars.] 
All  things  grow  sadder  to  me,  one  by  one." 

The  culminating  pathos  of  Paradise  Regained,  had  it 
been  completed,  could  have  been  none  other  than  that  here 
expressed.  I  know  not  where,  out  of  sacred  writ,  a  pathos 
more  sublime  is  attained. 


172  MRS.   BARRETT   BROWNING. 

I  have  judged  it  best  to  devote  particular  attention  to 
one  of  Mrs.  Browning's  poems,  that  the  reader  may  have 
an  opportunity  of  comparing  my  statements  and  opinions, 
with  at  least  a  few  of  the  passages  on  which  they  are 
based.  If  he  is  acquainted  with  anything  in  the  range  of 
female  poetry,  worthy  of  being  set  for  a  moment  on  a  level 
with  what  we  have  seen,  I  must  confess  my  own  ignorance : 
there  seems  to  me  to  be  enough  in  this  poem  alone,  to  set 
the  poetess  at  the  head  of  her  sex.  The  imagination  it 
displays  is  not  only  fertile  in  metaphoric  brilliancies  and 
lyric  bursts,  but  broad  of  vision,  and  mighty  to  control  a 
thousand  elements  into  one  harmony.  The  intellectual 
power  of  the  poem  is  exhibited,  not  only  in  the  rugged 
vigor  of  the  style,  but  in  the  penetration  with  which  the 
metaphysic  depths  of  the  subject  are  searched,  and  in  the 
easy  mastery  with  which  great  truths,  of  the  sort  on 
which  minds  of  sound  sagacity,  yet  daring  speculation, 
pillar  themselves,  are  set  in  their  due  place  to  support  the 
whole.  Two  things  further  appear  to  be  peculiarly  charac- 
teristic of  this  poem :  beautiful  apart,  they  are  still  more 
beautiful  in  combination.  The  first  is  its  earnest  and  es- 
sential Christianity:  the  second  its  intense  and  pathetic 
womanliness.  Mrs.  Browning  is  in  the  highest  sense,  and 
always,  a  Christian  poetess.  She  has  drunk  more  deeply 
into  the  spirituality  of  the  gospel,  and,  it  may  even  be, 
looked  with  greater  earnestness  and  amazement  upon  cer- 
tain of  its  most  sublime  facts,  than  Milton.  The  poem 
before  us  is,  throughout,  Christian ;  not  ethically,  not  senti- 
mentally, not  alone  in  spirit,  far  less  for  artistic  purposes,  but 
in  the  strictness  and  literalness  of  actual  belief.  It  is  true 
that,  in  legitimate  consistency  with  her  poetic  object, — 
to  contrast  a  mankind  that  found  salvation  with  an  angel 
host  which  did  not,  —  she  has  used  the  general  expressions 


MRS.    BARRETT   BROWNING.  173 

applied  by  Scripture  in  that  sense,  and  which,  alone,  would 
imj^ly  universalism.  But  it  is  not  necessary  to  suppose  her 
declaring  her  belief  that  those  who,  in  the  most  free  exer- 
cise of  their  human  will,  defy  the  Saviour,  and  take  part 
with  the  diabolic  tormentors  of  man  in  time,  will  share  the 
same  futurity  with  those  who  now  commence  an  eternity  of 
opposition  to  evil  under  the  banner  of  the  Redeemer.  Such 
a  belief  introduces  elements  of  fatal  weakness  into  a  system 
of  thought,  and  is  inconsistent  with  any  theory  of -things,  in 
which  strength  of  realism  repels  fancy  and  sentimentalism. 
But  interpreting  the  expressions  to  which  I  allude  in  the 
sense  I  have  indicated,  we  find,  in  the  Drama  of  MciZe,  all 
those  central  truths  of  Christianity  which  have  been  ac- 
cepted by  the  mightiest  minds  of  the  era,  Paul,  Augustine, 
Luther,  Calvin,  Edwards,  Neander ;  and  once  more  it  has 
been  demonstrated  that  the  bare  facts  of  Christianity 
transcend  in  sublimity  any  counterfeit,  and  more  power- 
fully stimulate  a  really  great  imagination  than  any  other 
theme  whatever.  The  Christianity  of  Mrs.  Browning's 
poems  is  far  too  constant  and  deep-lying  —  it  enters  too 
pervasively  into  the  warp  and  woof  of  her  thought  and 
feeling  —  to  be  by  possibility  an  affectation  or  fashion.  It 
is  manifestly  the  life  of  her  life,  the  breath  of  immortality 
at  the  centre  of  her  being.  In  the  dedication  of  her  first 
volumes  to  her  father,  she  appeals,  with  solemn  tenderness, 
to  his  knowledge  that  she  holds  "  over  all  sense  of  loss  and 
transiency,  one  hope  by  one  Name."  Her  poetry  testifies 
that  in  so  saying  she  speaks  words  of  truth  and  soberness. 
Her  genuine  womanliness  is,  in  this  poem,  no  less  conspic- 
uous. It  is  characteristic  of  this  century,  that  in  all  senses 
women  play  a  more  important  part  in  literature  than  here- 
tofore. Not  only  have  women  of  genius  commanded 
universal  homage,  but  the  distinctive  characteristics  of 
15* 


174  MRS.   BARRETT   BROWNING. 

the  female  nature,  have  been  exhibited  with  more  exquisite 
analysis  and  more  powerful  truth  than  heretofore.  The 
heart  of  woman  was,  I  suppose,  never  laid  bare  as  it  has 
been  by  Charlotte  Bronte  and  Mrs.  Browning.  And  in 
the  Drama  of  Mcile,  in  such  passages  as  we  have  seen, 
the  mission  of  woman  to  the  world  —  her  peculiar  glory 
of  sowing  blessing  with  every  tear  she  sheds  —  her  angelic 
privilege  of  being  the  incarnation  of  peace  above  con- 
flict, of  gentleness  mightier  than  anger,  of  love  stronger 
than  hate  —  is  defined  and  illustrated,  with  that  bold  sweep 
which  pertains  to  truth,  and  in  those  colors  which  only  sym- 
pathy can  supply.  But  we  must  embrace  in  our  view  other 
poems  besides  the  Drama  of  Exile  before  we  apprehend, 
to  the  full,  the  revelation  of  the  female  heart,  opened  to  us 
by  this  poetess. 

And  now,  since  readers  may  be  willing  to  concede  that  in 
this  poem  there  is  a  sufficiency  of  simple  human  emotion, 
expressed  in  the  mother  tongue  of  noble  passion,  to  thrill 
all  hearts  with  pleasure,  I  must  once  more  appeal  to  them, 
whether  it  is  not  cause  of  regret,  that  the  elaborate  ma- 
chinery and  painful  erudition  of  the  poem  will  indubitably 
prevent  the  general  mind  from  penetrating  to  its  inner 
beauty.  The  sense  reels  under  the  bewildering  pagean- 
try of  earth  spirits,  and  bird  spirits,  and  river  spirits,  and 
zodiacs,  and  stars,  and  chorusing  angels:  the  mind  is 
perplexed  with  gnomons,  and  apogees,  and  vibrations,  and 
infinites.  One  stares  on  all  this  as  he  might  on  the  foam, 
glorious  in  its  shivered  snow  and  wavering  irises,  that 
roars  and  raves  round  a  coral  reef.  The  vessel  draws  near 
the  reef,  and  many  an  eye  looks  into  that  foam,  but  its 
beauty  fascinates  only  for  a  moment,  and  the  sail  fills,  and 
the  island  is  left  forever.  Never,  perhaps,  is  it  known, 
that  in  the  heart  of  that  island,  hidden  by  the  torn  fringes 


MRS.    BARRETT    BROWNING.  175 

of  tinted  foam,  there  was  soft  green  grass,  and  a  quiet, 
crystal  fountain,  and  cottages  smiling  in  the  light  of  flowers, 
and  all  the  home  affections  offering  a  welcome. 

Of  Mrs.  Browning's  other  poems,  I  shall  say,  compara- 
tively, but  a  few.  words. 

The  Seraphim  is  a  poem  which  all  ought  to  study,  who 
would  habituate  their  minds  to  soaring  thought  and  lofty 
imagination.  It  is  in  conception  that  it  is  finest.  The 
poetess  depicts  the  emotions  with  which  the  highest  of  the 
heavenly  host  contemplated  the  crucifixion.  How  magnifi- 
cent the  daring  of  this!  Nay,  rather,  let  us  say  how 
irresistible  must  have  been  the  afflatus,  breathing  on  the 
poetess,  as  she  contemplated  this,  to  her,  central  fact  of 
human  story,  and  bearing  her  towards  the  highest  heavens, 
to  find  hearts  strong  enough  representatively  to  feel,  and 
tongues  fit  to  express,  the  emotions  she  experienced.  The 
speakers  are  two  seraphim,  Zerah  and  Ador.  In  the  fol- 
lowing passage,  the  only  one  I  can  quote  from  the  poem,  I 
know  not  whether  the  imaginative  energy,  or  the  almost 
startling  realism,  is  the  more  remarkable ;  but  their  union 
makes  up  one  of  the  most  extraordinary  passages  in  English 
poetry :  — 

"Ador.      The  pathos  hath  the  day  undone : 
The  death-look  of  His  eyes 
Hath  overcome  the  sun, 
And  made  it  sicken  in  its  narrow  skies  — 
Is  it  to  death  ? 

Zerah.  He  dieth.     Through  the  dark, 

He  still,  He  only,  is  discernible  — 
The  naked  hands  and  feet,  transfixed  stark, 
The  countenance  of  patient  anguish  white 

Do  make  themselves  a  light 
More  dreadful  than  the  glooms  which  round  them  dwell, 
And  therein  do  they  shine." 


176  M$S.    BARRETT   BROWNING. 

A  Vision  of  Poets  can  hardly  fail  to  suggest  Tennyson. 
A  first  and  partial  acquaintance,  indeed,  with  the  works  of 
Mrs.  Browning,  is  apt  to  prompt  the  opinion  that  she  may 
be  classed  among  the  pupils  and  followers  of  that  poet. 
Both  belong  to  one  time,  and  their  thoughts  run,  not 
unfrequently,  in  the  same  channels.  But  a  more  complete 
knowledge  of  Mrs.  Browning's  works  puts  to  flight  every 
imagination  of  an  influence  which  could  do  more  than 
stimulate,  which  could  in  the  slightest  degree  control,  her 
powers.  Her  genius  is  of  an  order  altogether  above  that 
which  can  be  permanently  or  organically  affected  by  any 
other  mind.  And, in  truth,  her  whole  mode  of  imaginative 
action  is  different  from  that  of  Tennyson.  The  unrivalled 
finish  and  strange  perfection  of  the  latter,  —  his  unique 
imaginative  faculty,  which  combines  a  color  more  rich  than 
that  of  Eastern  gardens,  with  a  science  more  austere  than 
that  of  Greek  architecture,  —  his  instinctive  and  imperious 
rejection  of  aught  wearing  even  the  semblance  of  fault  or 
imperfection,  requiring  that  all  his  marble  be  polished,  and 
all  his  gems  crystals,  —  can  in  no  respect  or  degree  be  said 
to  characterize  Mrs.  Browning.  Tennyson,  more  than  any 
English  poet  of  mark,  approaches  the  statue-like  calmness 
of  Goethe :  Mrs.  Browning  thrills  with  every  emotion  she 
depicts,  whether  passion  kindles  with  a  smile  her  own 
funeral  pyre,  or  earnestness  flows  rhythmic  from  the  lips 
of  the  Pythoness,  or  irrepressible  weeping  shakes  the  breast 
of  the  child.  Tennyson  is  the  wizard,  looking,  with  un- 
moved face,  into  the  furnace,  whose  white  heat  melts  the 
flint:  Mrs.  Browning  has  the  furnace  in  her  own  bosom, 
and  you  see  its  throbbings.  Tennyson's  imagination  treads 
loftily  on  cloth  of  gold,  its  dainty  foot  neither  wetted  with 
dew  nor  stained  with  mire:  Mrs.  Browning's  rushes  up- 
wards and  onwards,  its  drapery  now  streaming  in  the  wind, 


MRS.    BARRETT   BROWNING.  177 

now  draggled  in  the  mountain  rivers,  making,  with  impetu- 
ous lawlessness,  for  the  goal.  Mrs.  Browning  has  scarcely  a 
poem  undefaced  by  palpable  error  or  extravagance :  Tenny- 
son's poetry  is  characterized  by  that  perilous  absence  of 
fault,  which  seems  hardly  consistent  with  supreme  genius. 
Between  our  greatest  living  poet,  therefore,  and  the 
greatest  of  all  poetesses,  there  can  be  instituted  no  general 
comparison.  But  in  A  Vision  of Poets \  and  in  The  PoeVs 
Vow,  there  is  much  to  recall  Tennyson.  In  the  former, 
the  individual  portraits,  in  the  latter,  the  central  thought, 
point  unmistakably  to  The  Palace  of  Art.  But  even  when 
most  like  Tennyson,  Mrs.  Browning  is  unmistakably  herself. 
If  the  succession  of  individual  likenesses  in  A  Vision  of 
Poets  recalls  that  in  The  Palace  of  Art,  as  the  melody 
sometimes  suggests  that  of  The  Two  Voices,  there  is  a 
boldness,  a  sweeping  breadth  of  touch,  in  Mrs.  Browning's 
delineations,  belonging  to  herself  alone.  If  the  thought 
of  The  PoeVs  Vow,  —  the  fatal  error  and  deadly  sin  of 
preferring  self-culture  to  human  sympathy,  —  is  the  same 
as  in  The  Palace  of  Art,  the  imagery  is  totally  dissimilar 
from  Tennyson's,  and  is  adapted,  but  for  the  intervention 
of  some  of  Mrs.  Browning's  tantalizing  dimness,  to  come 
upon  the  general  heart  with  more  powerful  directness  than 
the  more  elaborate  idealization  of  Tennyson.  The  poet 
gave  the  thought  in  allegory:  the  poetess  gives  it  in 
life.  One  or  two  of  the  portraits  of  "  God's  prophets  of 
the  Beautiful,"  from  the  hand  of  Mrs.  Browning,  cannot 
be  passed  over.  They  occur,  of  course,  in  A  Vision  of 
Poets. 

"  There,  Shakspeare !  on  whose  forehead  climb 
The  crowns  o'  the  world.     Oh,  eyes  sublime  — 
With  tears  and  laughters  for  all  time ! 

***** 


178  MRS.    BARRETT   BROWNING. 

Here,  Milton's  eyes  strike  piercing-dim: 
The  shapes  of  suns  and  stars  did  swim 
Like  clouds  from  them,  and  granted  him 

God  for  sole  vision.         *  *  * 

***** 
And  Sappho,  with  that  gloriole 

Of  ebon  hair  on  calmed  brows  — 
O  poet  woman !  none  forgoes 
The  leap,  attaining  the  repose ! 

***** 

And  Burns,  with  pungent  passionings 

Set  in  his  eyes  *  *  *  * 

This  is  a  critique  on  Burns.  When  you  have  said  this, 
you  have  spoken  the  one  indispensable  word  concerning 
him ;  if  you  wrote  folios  on  his  poetry,  you  could  hardly 
supplement,  however  you  might  illustrate,  those  "  pungent 
passionings." 

"  And  Shelley,  in  his  white  ideal 
All  statue  blind." 

That,  too,  is  marvellous :  in  philosophy  profound,  in  pathos 
genuine,  in  poetry  perfect.  There  are  few  such  examples 
of  condensation  in  the  language. 

"  And  visionary  Coleridge,  who 
Did  sweep  his  thoughts  as  angels  do 
Their  wings  with  cadence  up  the  Blue." 

It  is  little  to  say  that  these  lines  contain  a  biography. 

"  And  poor,  proud  Byron,  —  sad  as  grave, 
And  salt  as  life :  forlornly  brave, 
And  quivering  with  the  dart  he  drave." 


MRS.    BARRETT    BROWNING.  179 

This  is  very  bold,  and  in  almost  any  case  might  be  pro- 
nounced towering  presumption.  But  Mrs.  Browning  had 
a  right  to  say  it;  she  whose  intellectual  and  imaginative 
powers  are  to  the  full  as  great  as  those  of  Byron,  and  who 
has  never  stained,  by  one  foul  image  or  impure  emotion, 
the  gold  and  azure  of  her  genius. 

The  PoeVs  Vow  is  one  of  those  poems  in  which  there  is 
exhibited  a  certain  mode  or  habit  of  poetic  representation, 
of  so  frequent  occurrence  in  the  pages  of  Mrs.  Browning, 
that  it  may  be  pronounced  a  principal  part  of  her  maimer, 
or  mannerism.  At  first,  you  are  merely  astonished  and 
bewildered.  You  know  not  who  are  the  actors,  what  is 
the  subject,  at  what  point  the  narrative  is  commenced. 
But  there  comes  gleam  after  gleam  of  backward-falling 
light ;  and  when  finally  you  open  on  the  full  meaning  of 
the  poem,  and  when  the  cataract  of  its  passion  flashes  on 
your  eye,  the  light  streams  along  the  whole  avenue  by 
which  you  have  approached.  To  illustrate  this  peculiarity 
in  detail  would  occupy  too  much  space ;  but  no  better 
example  of  it  than  this  poem  could  be  cited.  I  must 
content  myself,  however,  with  quoting  one  or  two  stanzas, 
not  illustrative  of  this  point,  though  individually  remark- 
able.   The  poet  speaks  thus :  — 

u  Hear  me  forswear  man's  sympathies, 

His  pleasant  yea  and  no  — 
His  riot  on  the  piteous  earth 

Whereon  his  thistles  grow ! 
His  changing  love  —  with  stars  above  I 

His  pride  —  with  graves  below  I" 


. 


is  expresses  his  determination  to  put  away  from  him  all 
;hat  can  break  the  serenity  of  self-culture,  to  abandon  men 
vnd  seek  the  grand  solitudes  of  nature.    The  thought  in  the 


180  MRS.    BARRETT   BROWNING. 

two  last  lines  in  Goethe's,  and  has  been  made  familiar  to  all 
by  the  iteration  of  Mr.  Carlyle.  But  I  do  not  remember  a 
case  in  which  it  was  more  finely  applied. 

The  solitary  divides  his  wealth  among  his  friends,  and 
bids  a  determined  adieu  to  his  brothers  who  "  love  him  true 
as  brothers  do,"  and  to  Rosalind,  his  betrothed,  who  loves 
him  as  no  brother  can.  The  following  words  are  spoken  by 
Sir  Roland,  whom  the  poet  would  fain  have  the  accepted 
lover  of  his  forsaken  Rosalind.  Both  she  and  Sir  Roland, 
of  course,  scorn  the  union,  as  well  as  the  dower  which  the 
poet  offers;  and  Sir  Roland  addresses  him  thus: — 

"  And  thou,  O  distant,  sinful  heart, 

That  climbest  up  so  high, 
To  wrap  and  blind  thee  with  the  snows 

That  cause  to  dream  and  die  — 
What  blessing  can,  from  lips  of  man, 

Approach  thee  with  his  sigh  ? 

Ay !  what  from  earth  —  create  for  man, 

And  moaning  in  his  moan  ? 
Ay !  what  from  stars  —  revealed  to  man, 

And  man-named,  one  by  one  ? 
Ay,  more !  what  blessing  can  be  given, 
Where  the  Spirits  seven  do  show  in  heaven 

A  MAN  upon  the  Throne  V  — 

A  man  on  earth  HE  wandered  once, 

All  meek  and  undented : 
And  those  who  loved  Him,  said  '  He  wept,  — 

None  ever  said  He  smiled, 
Yet  there  might  have  been  a  smile  unseen, 
When  He  bowed  his  holy  face,  I  ween, 

To  bless  that  happy  child." 

There  is  here  another  illustration  of  the  way  in  which  the 


MRS.    BARRETT    BROWNING.  181 

vital  Christianity  of  Mrs.  Browning  leads  her  constantly  to 
the  purest  loveliness  and  the  deepest  truth.  Tennyson  has 
struck  no  note  so  high  in  The  Palace  of  Art. 

Rosalind  dies  of  a  broken  heart,  leaving  a  written  scroll, 
to  be  put  in  her  coffin,  and  laid,  with  her  body,  at  the  door 
of  the  lonely  castle,  where  her  lover  dwells  apart.  At 
midnight  the  poet  opened  his  bolted  door,  to  look  upon  the 
midnight  sky.  The  stars  shine  on  the  face  of  the  corpse. 
He  sees  and  reads  the  scroll.  The  two  following  verses  are 
part  of  its  contents. 

"  I  have  prayed  for  thee  with  bitter  sobs, 

When  passion's  course  was  free ! 

I  have  prayed  for  thee  with  silent  lips, 

In  the  anguish  none  could  see ! 
They  whispered  oft,  *  She  sleepeth  soft'— 
But  I  only  prayed  for  thee. 

*  *  *  *  * 

I  charge  thee,  by  the  living's  prayer, 

And  the  dead's  silentness, 
To  wring  from  out  thy  soul  a  cry 

Which  God  shall  hear  and  bless ! 
Lest  Heaven's  own  palm  droop  in  my  hand, 
And  pale  among  the  saints  I  stand, 

A  saint  companionless." 

The  victory  is  won. 

"  Bow  lower  down  before  the  throne 

Triumphant  Rosalind ! 
He  boweth  on  thy  corpse  his  face 

And  weepeth  as  the  blind. 
Twas  a  dread  sight  to  see  them  so  — 
For  the  senseless  corpse  rocked  to  and  fro 

With  the  wail  of  his  living  mind. 

FIRST  SERIES.  16 


182  MRS.    BARRETT    BROWNING. 

But  dreader  sight,  could  such  be  seen, 

His  inward  mind  did  lie ; 
Whose  long  subjected  humanness 

Gave  out  its  lion  cry, 
And  fiercely  rent  its  tenement 

In  a  mortal  agony. 

I  tell  you,  friends,  had  you  heard  his  wail, 
T  would  haunt  you  in  court  and  mart, 

And  in  merry  feast,  until  you  set 
Your  cup  down  to  depart  — 

That  weeping  wild  of  a  reckless  child 
From  a  proud  man's  broken  heart. 

O  broken  heart,  O  broken  vow, 

That  wore  so  proud  a  feature ! 
God,  grasping  as  a  thunderbolt 

The  man's  rejected  nature, 
Smote  him  therewith  —  i'  the  presence  high 
Of  his  so  worshipped  earth  and  sky 
That  looked  on  all  indifferently  — 

A  wailing  human  creature." 

You  might  read  that  after  Shakspeare  and  ^Eschylus,  and 
yet  pronounce  its  excellence  supreme. 

Our  inspection  of  the  Drama  of  Exile  may  have  enabled 
us  to  form  some  idea  of  Mrs.  Browning's  manner,  in  the 
treatment  of  those  sublime  themes  which  are,  in  a  sense, 
removed  from  human  sympathy.  As  in  a  region  congenial 
to  her  soaring  imagination  and  dauntless  intellect,  we  found 
her,  with  steady  poise,  casting  her  illumining  glance  around 
the  abode  of  the  Seraphim,  following  her  high  argument 
above  the  Aonian  Mount  and  Muse's  Hill.  We  have  had 
one  brief  look,  also,  into  her  mode  of  handling  subjects  con- 
nected, directly  or  indirectly,  with  the  principles  of  her  own 
art.    In  A  Vision  of  Poets,  which  was  specified  rather 


MRS.    BARRETT    BROWNING.  183 

than  criticised,  her  idea  of  a  poet's  training  is  set  before  us ; 
and  The  PoeVs  Vow  shows  that  she  has  not  only  exhibited 
unconsciously  in  her  works,  but  presented  consciously  to 
her  own  mind,  the  conviction,  that  the  Human  is  the 
noblest  theme  and  inspiration  of  poetry,  above  all  the  beau- 
ties, enticements,  and  meanings  of  physical  nature. 

There  is  still  at  least  one  other  class,  demanding  separate 
consideration,  among  the  poems  of  Mrs.  Browning.  It 
consists  of  those  which  may  be  most  broadly  characterized 
as  poems  of  personal  emotion,  and  which  are  more  expressly 
to  be  described,  as  delineations  of  feeling  peculiar  to  the 
female  heart.  The  passion  of  love  in  the  maiden  heart,  the 
devotion  of  the  wife,  and  the  affection  of  the  mother,  are 
severally  and  fully  portrayed.  In  each  case,  the  emotion  is 
conceived  and  exhibited  with  a  power  of  sympathy,  and  a 
dramatic  force,  of  which  it  is,  I  believe,  but  slight  applause 
to  say,  that  they  are  totally  unrivalled.  Mrs.  Browning 
has  given  us  the  counterpart  to  all  the  poetry  of  chivalry. 
Troubadour  and  minstrel  sung  for  ages  in  homage  to 
woman ;  knights  and  monarchs  waited  for  the  smile  of 
beauty ;  the  imagination  of  Europe  exhausted  itself  in 
devising  heroic  adventures,  by  which,  penetrating  through 
dark  woods,  crossing  tempestuous  seas,  fighting  giants  and 
monsters,  breaking  enchantments  and  prison  walls,  the  bold 
soldier  forced  his  way  to  his  ladye-love.  But  the  counter- 
part in  this  picture,  the  devotion  of  the  woman  to  him  she 
loves,  was  wanting ;  and  we  stand  in  unfeigned  astonish- 
ment as  Mrs.  Browning  reveals  to  us  what  a  woman's  passion 
means.  This  extraordinary  writer  is  always  original;  but 
here  she  had  the  field  almost  to  herself.  We  feel  her  words 
to  be  true  :  they  come  on  us  with  the  authoritative  emphasis 
of  nature,  coined  in  the  mint  of  the  heart  and  accepted  by 
the  heart  at  once.    Yet  none  but  a  woman  would  have  had  a 


184:  MRS.    BARRETT   BROWNING. 

right  to  assert,  that  passion  so  intense  and  self-annihilating 
could  be  inspired  by  man  in  the  heart  of  woman.  Ties  of 
relationship,  worldly  station,  riches,  life,  are  cast  into  the 
crucible  ;  they  are  instantly  not  only  melted  but  dissolved 
and  cast  aloft  as  impalpable  vapor.  All  this  happens,  and 
the  crucible  is  still,  itself,  firm. ;  the  heart  is  yet  unbroken : 
until  the  passion  is  unrequited,  until  the  flame  is  left  to  eat 
the  heart  itself,  and  then  it  too  dissolves  in  ashes  and  death. 
In  IsobePs  Child,  it  is  the  maternal  instinct  that  is  por- 
trayed. The  poem  suffers  greatly  from  accumulation  of 
useless  and  distracting  machinery.  The  nurse's  dream 
appears  to  me  simply  an  incumbrance,  and  far  less  ought  to 
have  been  said  about  owls  and  elements.  But  the  beat  of 
the  mother's  heart  falls  clear  and  true  amid  all  this ;  and 
when  we  penetrate  far  enough  to  hear  it,  our  own  heart 
cannot  but  beat  in  unison.  The  incident  of  the  poem, 
stripped  of  accessories,  is  very  simple.  A  mother  has  long 
watched,  in  agony  of  hope  and  fear,  by  the  sick-bed  of  her 
child,  for  whose  recovery  she  earnestly  prays.  Her  petition 
is  granted,  and  the  child  recovers.  Her  heart  is,  for  a 
brief  hour,  filled  with  pure  and  unspeakable  ecstacy.  But, 
by  not  very  happy  imagery,  it  is  revealed  to  her,  that  her 
prayer  has  deprived  her  babe  of  the  bliss  of  present  heaven. 
So  she  recalls  her  prayer,  yields  him  up,  and  herself 
presently  expires.  I  do  not  attempt  to  convey  any  idea  of 
this  composition ;  but  do  not  the  following  lines,  spoken  by 
Isobel  in  anticipation  of  the  death  of  her  son,  express  with 
strange  exactness,  yet  no  less  marvellous  poetic  power,  the 
feeling  of  a  mother  looking  on  the  grave  of  an  only  child. 

"  How  I  shall  shiver  every  day 
In  thy  June  sunshine,  knowing  where 
The  grave-grass  keeps  it  from  his  fair 


MRS.    BARRETT    BROWNING.  185 

Still  cheeks  !  and  feel  at  every  tread 

His  little  body  which  is  dead 

And  hidden  in  the  turfy  fold, 

Doth  make  the  whole  warm  earth  a~cold  1  * 

But  her  love  for  her  babe  is  stronger  than  her  joy  in 
possessing  him.  "When  his  corpse  lies  before  her,  she  speaks 
thus: — 

"  I  changed  the  cruel  prayer  I  made, 
And  bowed  my  meekened  face  and  prayed 
That  God  would  do  His  will !  and  thus 
He  did  it,  nurse !     He  parted  its. 
And  His  sun  shows  victorious 
The  dead  calm  face,  —  and  /  am  calm ; 
And  heaven  is  hearkening  a  new  psalm.  * 

From  many  remarkable  poems,  such  as  The  Romawit  of 
the  Page,  Bertha  in  the  Lane,  Lady  Geraldine^s  Court- 
ship,  and  so  on,  each  of  which  could  hardly  have  failed  to 
make  a  reputation,  I  select,  for  special  notice,  The  Rhyme 
of  the  Duchess  May.  This,  take  it  all  in  all,  is,  in  my 
opinion,  Mrs.  Browning's  masterpiece.  All  the  exceptions 
which  can  possibly  be  taken  to  it  may  be  summed  up  in  a 
single  sentence :  while  it  is  difficult  to  say  how  many  specks 
and  flaws  might  have  been  covered  up  from  sight,  in  the 
broad  and  steady  blaze  of  its  general  power.  The  compar- 
ison of  an  ancient  wood,  standing  "  mute  adown,"  to  a 
"  full  heart  having  prayed ; "  such  an  expression  as  "  the 
castle  seethed  in  blood, "  when  we  hear  of  but  five  hundred 
archers  besieging  it,  and  when  the  besieged  have  not  a 
score  of  men  killed  ;  the  tediousness  and  apparent  triviality 
of  the  refrain  about  the  little  birds ;  the  monotony  of  the 
recurrence  of  the  words  "  toll  slowly, "  which  altogether 
fail,  as  any  words  would  have  failed,  to  produce  the  effect, 
16* 


186  MRS.    BARRETT   BROWNING. 

on  the  ear  or  imagination  of  the  reader,  which  would  have 
been  produced  by  the  tolling  of  a  death-knell:  —  these 
exhaust  the  heads  of  offending,  which  can  be  specified,  with 
any  show  of  reason,  against  the  poem.  I  think  each  of 
them  is  more  or  less  objectionable,  and  I  would  totally  do 
away  with  that  weakening  and  irritating  "  toll  slowly ; "  but 
they  are  worthy  of  notice  not  for  their  importance  but 
their  unimportance.  Contemplating  the  piece,  which  con- 
sists of  several  hundred  lines,  in  its  entireness,  it  is  found 
to  be  a  production,  whose  rare  artistic  completeness  is  only 
less  remarkable  than  the  quality  of  its  detailed  drawing  and 
local  color.  It  could  have  been  the  work  only  of  one  to 
whom  long  practice  had  imparted  the  skill  of  consummate 
art ;  and  no  poet  could  have  produced  it,  save  one  on  whose 
burning  genius  consummate  art  had  exercised  no  constrain- 
ing power. 

In  considering  this  poem,  as,  indeed,  in  forming  a  judg- 
ment of  any  of  Mrs.  Browning's  poems,  it  is  necessary 
clearly  to  discriminate  two  things :  the  realistic  basis,  and 
the  imaginative  form.  Not  Byron,  not  Scott,  not  Burns 
was  a  greater  realist  than  Mrs.  Browning  :  not  one  of  them 
could  take,  with  surer  hand,  the  lineaments  of  living  passion. 
But  the  imaginative  drapery  in  which  she  clothes  her 
figures  is  of  that  sort  which  we  formerly  saw,  loose-flowing 
as  the  mist,  perpetually  suggesting  the  supernatural  or 
mysterious,  gorgeous,  indeed,  in  coloring,  but  in  effect 
bewildering.  In  The  Rhyme  of  the  Duchess  May,  the 
groundwork,  laid  in  with  uncompromising  realism,  is  the 
passion  of  wifely  devotion,  triumphing  not  over  but  through 
death.  The  covering  in  which  imagination  wraps  this 
central  passion  —  the  outward  form  of  the  poem  —  will 
strike  many  as  romantic.  If  it  is  insisted  that  the  element 
of  romance  too  much  abounds,  let  it  be  so :  the  realistic 


MRS.    BARRETT    BROWNING.  187 

basis  still  remains.  But  I  think  that  if  the  piece  is  fairly 
and  deliberately  viewed,  it  will  be  found  that  the  charge  of 
excessive  romance  has  no  force  whatever.  The  central 
portion  of  the  poem,  that  to  which  alone  the  accusation  can 
apply,  is  professedly  and  expressly  imaginative.  It  comes, 
with  its  passion  and  its  change,  between  the  stillness  before 
and  after,  like  a  meteor  between  two  calm  celestial  spaces. 
The  poetess  sits  in  a  churchyard ;  there  she  reads,  the 
church  bell  tolling  deathfully  the  while,  an  "ancient 
rhyme, "  a  tale  of  life  and  sin,  weird  and  wondrous,  which 
would  contradict  all  our  expectations,  if  it  proved  staid  and 
regular,  like  a  modern  copy  of  verses ;  when  the  Rhyme  is 
finished,  we  are  again  in  the  churchyard,  and  a  deeper  calm 
is  around  us  than  before.  Surely,  if  the  delineation  of  the 
passion  at  the  heart  of  the  poem  is  true,  there  is  here  no 
unwarrantable  license  of  imagination. 

The  description  of  the  churchyard,  with  which  the  poem 
opens,  does  not  long  detain  the  reader.  The  Rhyme  itself 
soon  hurries  him  into  the  main  current  of  interest.  The 
Castle  of  Linteged,  the  scene  of  the  whole  incident,  is  thus 
boldly  dashed  in :  — 

"  Down  the  sun  dropt  large  and  red,  on  the  towers  of  Linteged,  — 
Toll  slowly. 
Lance  and  spear  upon  the  height,  bristling  strange  in  fiery  light, 
While  the  castle  stood  in  shade. 

There,  the  castle  stood  up  black,  with  the  red  sun  at  its  hack,  — 

Toll  slowly. 
Like  a  sullen  smouldering  pyre,  with  a  top  that  flickers  fire 

When  the  wind  is  on  its  track." 

To  this  castle,  three  months  before  this  time,  the  Duchess 
May  had  come,  as  the  bride  of  Sir  Guy  of  Liuteged.  She 
had  been  the  ward  of  her  uncle,  the  old  Earl  of  Leigh, 


188  MRS.    BARRETT   BROWNING. 

who  betrothed  her  in  her  childhood,  for  the  sake  of  her 
inheritance,  to  his  son,  Lord  Leigh.  On  coming  of  age, 
however,  she  was  rather  more  than  indifferent  to  the  young 
lord,  and  haughtily  defied  both  him  and  his  father.  The 
son,  as  base  and  avaricious  as  the  father,  declares  that,  let 
her  love  him  or  let  her  loathe  him,  let  her  live  or  die, 
marry  her  he  will.     Then :  — 

"  Up  she  rose  with  scornful  eyes,  as  her  father's  child  might  rise, — 

Toll  slowly. 
'Thy  hound's  blood,  my  lord  of  Leigh,  stains  thy  knightly  heel,' 
quoth  she, 

'  And  he  moans  not  where  he  lies.' 

'  But  a  woman's  will  dies  hard,  in  the  hall  or  on  the  sward !'  — 

Toll  slowly. 
'  By  that  grave,  my  lords,  which  made  me  orphaned  girl  and  dowered 
lady, 

I  deny  you  wife  and  ward.' n 

This  Duchess  May  is  one  of  the  most  admirably  drawn 
figures  that  ever  came  from  the  pencil  of  art.  Every  line  is 
so  definite,  every  tint  so  bright  and  clear.  Her  whole  exter- 
nal existence,  her  haughtiness,  her  beauty,  her  queenliness  of 
mien  and  manner,  are  touched  in  with  the  airy  vividness  of 
Scott :  her  inmost  heart  is  laid  bare,  her  boundless  womanly 
tenderness,  her  inflexible  womanly  pride,  her  womanly  ecsta- 
cy  of  self-sacrifice,  —  with,  I  speak  deliberately,  the  power  of 
a  Shakspeare.  In  some  respects,  she  reminds  one  of  a  large 
class  of  female  characters ;  Scott's  Die  Vernon,  Shakspeare's 
Beatrice,  still  more  closely,  Currer  Bell's  Shirley.  Shirley, 
indeed,  comes  exceedingly  near ;  she  is  the  Duchess  May 
in  a  novel,  as  the  Duchess  May  is  Shirley  in  an  atmosphere 
of  epic  grandeur.  But,  on  the  whole,  the  Duchess  May 
must  be   ranked  with   the   Juliets  and   Desdemonas,  far 


MRS.    BARRETT    BROWNING.  189 

beyond  any  flight  of  Scott  or  Currer  Bell,  and  perhaps 
not  admitting  of  being  introduced  save  where  tragedy  in 
sceptred  pall  sweeps  by.  Beatrice  is  one  of  the  most 
charming  characters  ever  portrayed,  but  she  could  not 
have  died  like  Desdemona,  to  whom  it  is  not  the  epithet, 
charming,  that  we  would  apply. 

The  Duchess  May  bestows  her  hand  upon  Sir  Guy  of 
Linteged,  and  the  bridal  train,  pursued  by  the  Leighs, 
dashes  off  at  midnight,  through  storm  and  rain,  for  the 
castle  among  the  hills. 

"  And  the  bridegroom  led  the  flight  on  his  red-roan  steed  of  might, — 
Toll  slowly. 
And  the  bride  lay  on  his  arm,  still,  as  if  she  felt  no  harm, 
Smiling  out  into  the  night." 

This  lets  us  see  the  essential  contrast,  which,  in  its  unity, 
completes  the  delineation  of  the  lady :  defiance  of  kindred, 
scorn  of  all  terrors  of  midnight  and  storm,  dauntless  courage 
and  inflexible  pride,  where  love  is  to  be  vindicated,  —  per- 
fect rest,  submission,  confidence,  halcyon  repose,  as  of  a 
child  on  the  breast  of  its  mother,  as  of  a  dewdrop  in  the 
bosom  of  a  rose,  in  the  encircling  arms  of  love  accepted 
and  returned. 

Sir  Guy  and  his  bride  reach  the  castle  in  safety,  and 
three  happy  months  pass  by.  Then  the  castle  is  besieged 
by  Lord  Leigh,  the  rejected  suitor,  and  after  a  fortnight's 
siege  is  about  to  fall  into  his  hands.  Ruthless  and  grovel- 
ling, he  is  still  determined  to  wed  the  Duchess,  though  it 
be  over  the  corpse  of  her  present  husband.  In  this  the 
lady  is  resolved,  through  life  and  death,  to  foil  him. 
Attired  in  purple  robes,  and  with  her  ducal  coronet  on 
her  brow,  she  looks  down  upon  him  from  the  wall,  wither- 
ing him  with   her   scorn.     Meantime   Sir  Guy  has  been 


190  MRS.    BARRETT    BROWNING. 

superintending  operations  on  the  east  tower,  the  highest 
of  all.  He  perceives  that  hope  is  gone,  bethinks  him  that 
he  alone  stands  between  his  wife  and  followers  and  safety, 
that  resistance  at  the  breach  would  result  simply  in  the 
destruction  of  all,  and  determines  at  once  to  put  an  end 
to  his  life.  His  wife,  he  thinks,  will  soon  get  over  her 
distress,  soothed  and  entreated  by  his  victorious  foes,  who 
made  war  on  her  only  for  his  sake : 

" '  She  will  weep  her  woman's  tears,  she  will  pray  her  woman's 
prayers,'  — 

Toll  slowly. 
But  her  heart  is  young  in  pain,  and  her  hopes  will  spring  again 
By  the  suntime  of  her  years.' " 

He  binds  his  men  by  oath  not  to  strike  a  blow  that  night. 
He  then  demands,  of  his  two  most  faithful  knights,  the  last 
service  of  leading  the  good  steed  which  he  rode  on  that 
unforgotten  night  journey,  in  full  harness,  up  the  turret 
stair,  to  the  place  where  he  stands.  He  will  leap  from  the 
wall  and  so  die  on  his  battle-steed,  as  a  good  knight  ought. 
But  the  Duchess  May  has  a  heart  as  strong  as  his.  She  is 
bound,  on  the  one  hand,  by  her  womanly  honor,  not  to 
wed  Lord  Leigh :  on  the  other,  she  will  show  her  husband 
what  lightnings  may  lurk  amid  the  softness  of  woman's 
tears.  As  the  knights  are  goading  the  horse  up  the  stair, 
she  comes  from  Ker  chamber  and  inquires  their  errand. 
They  tell  her  that  one  half-hour  completes  the  breach,  and 
that  her  lord,  wild  with  despair,  is  about  to  ride  the  castle 
wall.  For  a  moment,  the  thought  of  love  past,  and  the 
weight  of  all  this  anguish,  overcome  her:  she  bows  her 
head,  and  tear  after  tear  is  heard  falling  to  the  ground. 
The  knights,  gentle  in  their  valor,  assay  to  comfort 
her:  — 


MRS.    BARRETT    BROWNING.  191 

*■ '  Get  thee  in,  thou  soft  ladye !  —  here,  is  never  a  place  for  thee ! ' — ■ 
Toll  slowly. 
'Braid  thy  hair  and  clasp  thy  gown,  that  thy  beauty  in  its  moan 
May  find  grace  with  Leigh  of  Leigh.' " 

In  a  moment  she  is  herself  again :  love's  pride  sets  its  iron 
heel  on  love's  tenderness. 

"  She  stood  up  in  bitter  case,  with  a  pale  yet  steady  face, 
Toll  slowly, 
Like  a  statue  thunderstruck,  which  though  quivering  seems  to  look 
Right  against  the  thunder-place.'' 

These  two  lines  are  not  alone  in  Mrs.  Browning's  poetry : 
they  belong  to  a  considerable  class,  which  might  be  cited 
to  prove  that  she  has  attained  the  very  highest  success  in 
the  very  highest  order  of  poetic  effort.  This  by  the  way. 
The  Duchess  May  brushes  impatiently  aside  the  well  inten- 
tioned  kindness  of  her  consolers,  and  takes  herself  the  rein 
of  the  good  steed.     He  now  needs  no  goading  : 

"  Soft  he  neighed  to  answer  her,  and  then  followed  up  the  stair 
For  the  love  of  her  sweet  look. 
*  *  *  *  #  *  *  * 

On  the  east  tower,  high'st  of  all,  —  there,  where  never  a  hoof  did 
fall,— 

Toll  slowly, 
Out  they  swept,  a  vision  steady,  —  noble  steed  and  lovely  lady, 
Calm  as  if  in  bower  or  stall." 

The  passage  succeeding  this,  it  would  be  totally  absurd  to 
attempt,  by  any  description,  to  bring  before  the  reader. 
The  wife  has  determined  that,  if  her  husband  leaps  over 
that  wall,  she  will  leap  over  with  him.  He  endeavors 
frantically  to  urge  the  horse  over  alone.  The  breach  falls 
in  as  she  pleads,  and  the  crash  of  wall  and  window,  the 


192  MRS.    BARRETT   BROWNING. 

shouts  of  foemen  and  the  shrieks  of  the  dying,  rise  in  one 
roar  around  the  pair.  But  love  is  victor.  In  vain  he 
wrings  her  small  hands  twice  and  thrice  in  twain.  She 
clings  to  him  as  in  a  swoon  of  agonized  determination.  At 
last,  when  the  horse,  rearing  on  the  verge  of  the  precipitous 
battlement,  could  no  longer  be  stopped,  "  she  upsprang,  she 
rose  upright,"  and  took  her  seat  beside  him  : 

"And  her  head  was  on  his  breast,  where  she  smiled  as  one  at  rest, — 

Toll  slowly. 
1  Ring/  she  cried,  '  O  vesper  bell,  in  the  beechwood's  old  chapelle ! 

But  the  passing  bell  rings  best.' 

They  have  caught  out  at  the  rein,  which  Sir  Guy  threw  loose  —  in 
vain,  — 

Toll  slowly. 
For  the  horse  in  stark  despair,  with  his  front  hoofs  poised  in  air, 
On  the  last  verge  rears  amain. 

Now  he  hangs  the  rocks  between  -~  and  his  nostrils  curdle  in,  — 

Toll  slowly. 
Now  he  shivers  head  and  hoof —  and  the  flakes  of  foam  fall  off; 

And  his  face  grows  fierce  and  thin  ! 

And  a  look  of  human  woe  from  his  staring  eyes  did  go,  — 

Toll  slowly. 
And  a  sharp  cry  uttered  he,  in  a  foretold  agony 

Of  the  headlong  death  below,  — 

And,   *  Ring,  ring,  thou  passing  bell/  still  she  cried,   '  i'  the  old 
chapelle!' 

Toll  slowly. 
Then  back-toppling,  crashing  back  —  a  dead  weight  flung  out  to 
wrack, 

Horse  and  riders  overfell." 

Sterner  realism  than  this  description  cannot  be  conceived. 
That  horse  is  frightfully  true  to  fact.     Mrs.  Browning  has 


MRS.    BARRETT   BROWNING.  193 

once  more  shown  that  only  on  the  rugged  crags  of  the  real 
can  imagination  preen  her  wings  for  flight  to  the  regions 
of  the  ideal.  The  passion  here,  too,  doubt  it  not,  is  true : 
Mrs.  Browning's  heart  sympathetically  thrilled  with  it,  as 
she  touched  that  smile  on  the  face  of  the  bride,  sinking 
into  the  abyss  of  death  in  her  husband's  arms :  with  all  her 
gentleness,  Mrs.  Browning  could  have  smiled  that  smile, 
and  ridden  that  wall!  "Woman's  love  can  make  of  the 
chariot  of  death  a  car  of  victory ;  amid  the  flames  of  the 
funeral  pyre  it  can  find  the  softest  bed.  There  is  even  a 
strictly  practical  value  in  this  realization,  to  our  perceptions 
and  sympathies,  of  transcendent  passion.  It  furnishes  us 
with  the  key  to  many  singular  biographical  problems.  I 
consider  it  a  literal  fact,  that  the  love  of  such  women  as 
Esther  Johnson  and  Esther  Yanhomrigh,  for  such  a  man  as 
Swift,  which,  tried  by  any  ordinary  rules,  seems  simply 
madness,  has  been  rendered  far  more  clearly  intelligible 
and  conceivable,  by  such  delineations  of  female  nature, 
as  have  been  given  us  by  Charlotte  Bronte  and  Mrs. 
Browning. 

The  wild  ancient  Rhyme  having  sung  itself  out,  we  return 
to  the  calm  of  the  churchyard,  and  are  reminded  of  a 
serenity  enveloping  and  subduing  all  passion.  The  poetess 
fixes  her  eye  on  a  little  grave  beneath  a  willow  tree,  on 
which  is  engraved  an  inscription,  stating  that  it  is  the  grave 
of  a  child  of  three  years.  Mrs.  Browning,  however  she 
may  indulge  the  play  of  dramatic  sympathy,  has  far  too 
stable  an  intellect  to  waver,  for  a  moment,  from  the  convic- 
tion, that  passion  can  never  be  the  highest.  From  her 
thoughts,  too,  the  essential  points  of  the  morality  preached 
from  the  Mount  are  never  absent ;  she  draws,  in  her  own 
rapid,  inimitable  manner,  rather  suggesting  than  detailing,  a 
contrast  between  the  passage  of  the  child-soul  to  heaven, 

FIBST  SERIES.  17 


194  MRS.    BARRETT   BROWNING. 

encompassed  by  star-wheels  and  angel  wings,  and  the  pas- 
sionate dashing  up  of  those  frantic  lovers  against  the  thick- 
bossed  shield  of  God's  judgment.  And  so  the  poem  ends 
in  rest  and  stillness :  leaving  us  in  silent  wonder  at  its  artis- 
tic symmetry  and  matchless  execution,  and  gazing  up  into 
the  celestial  blue  which  overarches  all  its  passion. 

Thus  has  Mrs.  Browning  poetically  realized  the  feelings 
of  the  bride  and  of  the  wife :  she  has  depicted  with  corres- 
ponding power  and  delicacy  the  feelings  of  the  mother.  In 
IsobeVs  Child,  as  I  have  already  remarked,  it  is  the  mater- 
nal instinct  which  is  the  central  subject  of  representation. 
It  is,  however,  in  Aurora  Leigh,  that  Mrs.  Browning's  de- 
lineation of  this  affection,  in  all  its  tenderness  and  in  all  its 
rapture,  attains  its  highest  perfection.  To  do  even  approx- 
imate justice  to  the  succession  of  passages  in. which,  in  the 
poem  named,  Marian  Erie  and  her  babe  are  the  objects  of 
portraiture,  would  demand  a  separate  critique.  But  were 
we  to  embrace  all  that  is  revealed  in  one  view  to  us  of  woman 
in  the  Drama  of  Exile,  The  Duchess  May,  IsobePs  Child, 
and  Aurora  Leigh,  not  to  mention  other  poems,  we  should 
find  it  difficult  to  dispute  the  position  that  this  poetess  has 
sung  of  her  own  sex,  as  no  poet  or  poetess  ever  did. 

Of  Aurora  Leigh,  as  Mrs.  Browning's  last  and  longest 
poem,  it  will  be  proper  to  speak  at  somewhat  greater  length. 

Whatever  the  estimate  of  this  poem,  at  which  we  may 
on  the  whole  arrive,  no  doubt  can  be  entertained  that  it  is 
the  finest  which  has  appeared  in  Great  Britain  since  In  Me- 
moriam.  Merely  to  specify  its  beauties  would  occupy  an 
extended  space.  The  descriptions  of  English  scenery  in  the 
early  books  may  challenge  comparison  with  anything  in  the 
language.  Yivid  as  if  resting  in  the  very  light  of  clear 
English  mornings,  fresh  as  if  the  dew-drops  glistened  on  the 
page,  broad  and  powerful  as  is  the  work  of  strong  imagina- 


MRS.    BARRETT   BROWNING.  195 

tion,  touched  everywhere  with  those  more  playfully  delicate 
lights  which  are  commonly  attributed  to  fancy,  these  lim- 
nings  must  make  every  Englishman  proud  of  a  country  that 
can  be  so  described,  and  of  a  poetess  who  can  so  describe 
it.  To  the  delineations  of  Italian  scenery,  a  similar  charac- 
ter may  be  ascribed,  the  necessary  changes  being  of  course 
made.  Even  without  a  personal  familiarity  with  that  scenery, 
the  accuracy  of  such  descriptions  is  instinctively  relied  on : 
there  is  in  them  an  honest  minuteness  which  is  its  own 
guarantee.  Besides  these  more  general  delineations,  there 
are  in  this  poem  certain  descriptive  passages,  such  as  the 
view  of  London,  and  the  sail  by  night  along  the  Sardinian 
sea-coast  towards  Italy,  which  would  require  a  separate  and 
more  elaborate  characterization.  They  are  among  those 
solitary  efforts  of  genius  to  which,  with  scientific  precision, 
we  may  apply  the  epithets,  magnificent  and  sublime.  Turn- 
ing to  the  human  figures,  Marian  Erie  is  in  all  respects 
worthy  of  Mrs.  Browning's  genius.  The  historical  exist- 
ence of  Emma  Lyon  renders  it  no  outrage  on  poetic  proba- 
bility to  suppose  such  ability  and  such  character  as  those  of 
Marian  Erie  in  an  English  girl  born  in  the  lowest  order  of 
society ;  nor  in  the  present  diffusion  of  the  elements  of 
knowledge,  is  the  mode,  in  which  she  is  represented  as  ac- 
quiring some  considerable  culture,  by  any  means  strained  or 
unnatural.  It  must,  of  course,  be  permitted  to  a  poet  to 
violate  minor  probabilities:  a  reasonable  possibility  is  all 
that  can  be  demanded.  Marian  Erie  is  imbued  with  true 
poetic  life :  we  approve,  admire,  and  love  her :  and  so  per- 
fectly are  we  interested  and  enchained  by  the  tenderness, 
the  loveliness,  the  inexpressible  pathos,  of  which  she  is  made 
the  centre^  that  it  is  only  afterwards  we  reflect  on  the  mar- 
vellous genius  displayed  by  the  poetess. 

It  may  appear  that  after  such  a  specification,  and  with  the 


196  MRS.    BARRETT   BROWNING. 

clear  admission  that  it  might  be  very  greatly  extended,  no 
alternative  remains  but  to  pronounce  Aurora  Leigh,  on  the 
whole,  a  successful  performance,  a  poetical  achievement  at 
once  noble  and  complete.  I  am  compelled  to  state  that, 
after  careful  deliberation,  my  conclusion  has  been  the  reverse. 
In  all  the  other  poems  by  Mrs.  Browning,  with  which  I  am 
acquainted,  the  defects,  though  sometimes  great,  are  not 
sufficient  to  neutralize  the  excellence :  to  Aurora  Leigh,  all 
things  considered,  the  only  word  to  be  applied  is  "failure." 
The  grounds  of  this  opinion  will  be  briefly  indicated. 

In  the  first  place,  nearly  all  the  exceptions  which  critics 
have  incidentally  taken  to  Mrs.  Browning's  poems  come 
here  into  application,  and  certain  of  them  can  be  urged  with 
greater  force  than  in  any  former  instance.  The  style,  in- 
deed, is  somewhat  simplified,  and  if  parenthesis  and  involu- 
tion still  prevail  to  a  greater  extent  than  is  now  necessary 
to  any  one  using  the  English  language,  the  charge  of  unin- 
telligibility,  or  even  of  decided  difficulty,  can  hardly  be 
brought  against  the  poem.  But  there  is  a  considerable 
number  of  those  overstrained  and  extravagant  images, 
those  sublime  conceits  towards  which  Mrs.  Browning  has 
so  often  manifested  a  tendency. 

"  Then  the  bitter  sea 
Inexorably  pushed  between  us  both, 
And  sweeping  up  the  ship  with  my  despair 
Threw  us  out  as  a  pasture  to  the  stars.** 

Mr.  Carlyle  has  been  bold  enough  to  declare  that  Shak- 
speare  sometimes  premeditates  the  sheerest  bombast.  It 
was  more  probably  through  momentary  negligence  that 
Mrs.  Browning  permitted  this  unpardonable  passage  to 
escape  her  pen.  At  all  events,  no  Homeric  bellman,  no 
Ossianic  juvenile,  ever  perpetrated  purer  nonsense,  or  more 


MRS.    BARRETT   BROWNING.  197 

unredeemed  bombast.  What  possible  resemblance  there 
can  be  between  a  ship  and  a  pasture,  why  and  when  stars  go 
out  to  grass,  and  wherefore,  having  so  gone  out,  they  should 
feed  on  ships  and  young  ladies  —  these  are  questions  of  in- 
soluble mystery,  but  hardly  more  mysterious  than  how  Mrs. 
Browning  could  crowd  so  many  absurdities  into  two  lines. 
The  lines  are  enough  in  themselves  seriously  to  damage  a 
great  poem :  and  though  perhaps  the  worst,  they  constitute 
by  no  means  a  solitary  example  of  extravagance. 

In  the  next  place  the  melody  of  Aurora  Leigh  is  defect- 
ive. There  are  indeed  passages  in  which  the  thoughts  and 
images  fairly  float  themselves  away  in  the  sphere-dance  of 
harmony ;  wonderful  passages,  in  which  it  is  again  demon- 
strated that  true  melody  in  language  is  but  the  rhythmic 
cadence  natural  to  a  mood  of  thought,  imagination  and  ex- 
pression, sufficiently  elevated,  calm  and  mighty.  But  over 
wide  spaces  of  the  poem  the  ear  finds  no  delight,  and  the 
ear  most  rightfully  demands  from  the  poet  what  the  eye 
demands  from  the  painter.  In  a  very  fair  review  of  Aurora 
Leigh,  published  in  Blackwood's  Magazine,  a  method  of  es- 
timate was  applied  to  the  poem  of  a  sort  which  Edgar  Poe 
strongly  insisted  on.  Certain  passages  were  given  without 
the  form  of  verse.  Has  Mrs.  Browning  read  those  passages  ? 
If  she  has,  and  if  the  impression  made  on  her  mind  was  that 
conveyed  irresistibly  to  mine,  how  did  she  contemplate  the 
fact  that  her  poetry  suggested  Mr.  Kingsley's  prose  ?  It  is 
no  commendation  of  Mrs.  Browning,  and  no  disparagement 
to  Mr.  Kingsley,  to  say  that  it  could  only  be  in  the  case  of 
utter,  though  perhaps  temporary,  abrogation  of  her  highest 
qualities,  that  a  production  of  the  former  could  recall  the 
work  of  the  latter ;  yet  it  is  so.  The  crowding,  the  vehem- 
ence, the  feverish  haste  and  impatience,  which  so  frequently 
characterise  Mr.  Kingsley's  novels,  can  hardly  fail  to  be 
17* 


198  MRS.    BARRETT   BROWNING. 

suggested  by  such  passages  as  those  to  which  allusion  is 
now  made.  It  cannot  be  pleaded  that  these  are  exceptional. 
The  heroine  invariably  talks  like  one  of  Mr.  Kingsley's 
characters.  There  is  a  lack,  besides,  of  tenderer  strains  to 
refresh  and  relieve  the  ear ;  the  atmosphere  wants  calm,  the 
landscape  wants  perspective.  Once  more,  the  irreverent  or 
seeming  irreverent  use  of  the  names  of  the  Persons  of  the 
Trinity,  which  had  been  formerly  objected  to  Mrs.  Brown- 
ing, is  carried  further  in  Aurora  Leigh  than  in  any  of  her 
previous  poems.  No  defence  can  be  offered  for  this  cir- 
cumstance. It  may  be  perfectly  true  that  Mrs.  Browning's 
irreverence  is  only  seeming,  and  that  it  results  mainly  from 
a  constant  habit  of  reference,  in  life,  to  the  will  of  the  Deity. 
But  the  fact  remains,  and  is  indubitable,  that  the  simple 
and  sincere  worshippers  of  God  throughout  the  British 
islands  will  be  pained  at  heart  by  the  words  of  Mrs.  Brown- 
ing. Something  called  reverence  by  Goethe  and  Carlyle 
may  be  consistent  with  a  familiarity  in  the  use  of  Divine 
names,  such  as  we  instinctively  shrink  from  in  the  case  of  a 
sister,  a  mother,  a  father,  a  departed  relative,  a  tenderly 
beloved  friend  ;  but  if  Mrs.  Browning  would  have  her  books 
associated  with  the  Bible,  the  Pilgrim's  Progress,  the  Chris- 
tian Year,  in  the  homes  and  hearts  of  simple,  godly  people, 
she  must  condescend  to  a  reverence  conceivable  in  itself, 
and  uncontradicted  by  the  whole  analogy  of  nature.  The 
example  of  Tennyson  ought  surely  to  have  preserved  her 
from  this  great  and  pervading  error.  Genius  need  not  be 
ashamed  to  learn  from  its  equal;  and  Mrs.  Browning 
would  do  well  to  meditate  on  Tennyson's  invariable .  mode 
of  reference  to 

"  That  which  we  dare  invoke  to  bless." 
These  are  serious  objections ;  yet  they  are  the  least  im- 


MRS.    BARRETT    BROWNING.  199 

portant  which  can  be  urged  against  Aurora  Leigh.  They 
are  the  light  musketry ;  the  park  of  artillery  has  still  to 
open  fire. 

Aurora  Leigh  is  herself  an  essentially  defective  character. 
"We  do  not  love  her:  we  cannot  love  her.  Had  Mrs. 
Browning  not  instructed  us,  it  might  have  been  otherwise. 
But  since  Mrs.  Browning,  in  her  Eve  and  her  Duchess  May, 
has  shown  us  what  woman  can  be,  what  sort  of  women  we 
ought  to  love,  it  is  impossible  for  us  to  reject  and  scorn  all 
her  teaching,  in  the  single  act  of  accepting  Aurora  Leigh. 
The  intellectual  character  of  this  young  lady  may  pass ;  she 
has  even  a  certain  bare  and  masculine  sense  of  justice,  and 
willingness  to  be  kind :  but  real  warmth  of  heart,  true  wo- 
manly tenderness,  she  has  not.  She  is  generically  different 
from  any  other  female  character  from  the  pencil  of  Mrs. 
Browning.  None  other  which  Mrs.  Browning  has  drawn 
could  have  been,  on  the  whole,  so  cold,  hard,  heartless,  as, 
on  the  occasion  of  the  death  of  her  aunt,  Aurora  Leigh 
shows  herself  to  be.  It  is  absolutely  astonishing  that  Mrs. 
Browning  has  permitted  her  heroine  to  exhibit  no  trace  of 
generous  relenting,  of  natural  grief,  of  mere  human  ten- 
derness, on  the  death  of  one  who  really  loved  her.  There 
is  no  dew-drop  in  the  bosom  of  this  rose. 

The  heroine  is  a  failure  in  respect  of  the  intention  of  the 
poetess.  She  must  be  considered  as  claiming  our  admira- 
tion and  love ;  and  she  is  not  worthy  of  their  being  accorded 
her.  But  Aurora  Leigh  is,  I  think,  true  to  nature :  real- 
istically, if  not  poetically,  the  portraiture  may  be  correct. 
What  is  perhaps  the  most  important  of  all  the  charges  to 
be  brought  against  the  poem  before  us  still  remains  to  be 
made.  In  the  portraiture  of  Romney  Leigh,  and  in  the 
whole  treatment  of  socialism,  the  necessary  realistic  basis, 
wholly  fails. 


200  MRS-.    BARRETT   BROWNING. 

Mrs.  Browning  is  in  theory  a  stern  realist.  She  earnestly 
proclaims  that  the  Homer  of  his  time  must  always  write  of 
the  present.  Throughout  Aurora  Leigh,  she  aims  at  bold, 
broad,  truthful  delineation.  She  takes  her  reader  to  the 
purlieus  of  St.  Giles's,  and  writes  off  fearlessly  the  curse  of 
the  ruffian,  the  slang  of  the  prostitute.  So  far,  —  it  may 
be,  —  good.  The  truth  as  to  the  real  and  the  ideal,  the 
present  and  the  past,  in  relation  to  poetical  composition,  is 
easily  defined.  In  the  real  is  found  the  only  true  mode  of 
ascent  to  the  ideal ;  the  loftiest  tree  must  have  its  roots  in 
the  ground.  The  present  is  the  subject  of  all  poetry,  inas- 
much as  the  substantial  frame-work  of  man's  moral  and 
intellectual  nature  is,  in  essentials,  in  all  ages,  the  same. 
Costume,  using  the  word  in  its  widest  sense,  varies  from  age 
to  age ;  it  is  a  noble  work  of  a  perfectly  informed  imagina- 
tion to  picture  forth,  in  perfect  exactness,  that  worn  by  any 
past  generation ;  but  the  living  men  whom  that  costume 
enveloped,  in  their  essential  attributes  of  reason  and  pas- 
sion, can  be  accurately  conceived  only  by  knowledge  of  the 
men  that  think  and  love  in  the  present.  To  all  objections 
that  her  descriptions  in  Aurora  Leigh  are  too  realistic,  Mrs. 
Browning  will  almost  glory  in  the  reply  that  she  paints  the 
life.  But  the  objection  now  urged  is  that  her  realism  is  in 
the  cases  mentioned,  utterly  at  fault,  and  that  her  realism 
failing,  her  idealization  becomes  of  necessity  mere  vague- 
ness, vapour,  nonentity.  A  single  illustration  from  the  poem 
itself  will  show  Mrs.  Browning  that  it  is  not  in  respect  of 
theory  or  method  that  the  present  exception  is  taken.  Her 
view  of  London  is  sufficiently  real  and  grandly  ideal.  The 
light  of  imagination  is  there,  but  it  falls  on  a  real  river,  on 
real  spires  and  palaces.  Her  Romney  Leigh  and  her  view 
of  socialism  have  no  such  basis  of  reality,  of  fact ;  they  are 
not  the  stuff  of  which  the  poetic  dream  can  make  anything ; 
they  are  dreams  about  dreams. 


MRS.   BARRETT   BROWNING.  201 

There  have,  in  all  ages,  been  individual  enthusiasts ;  but 
in  no  age  could  an  individual  enthusiast  have  been  repre- 
sentative ;  and  even  as  an  enthusiast,  Romney  Leigh  is  im- 
possible. He  is  represented  as  a  man  of  ability,  without  the 
smallest  trace  of  intellectual  power ;  he  is  represented  as  a 
man  of  statistics  and  of  science,  while  his  conception  of 
human  regeneration  is  purely  fanciful,  and  precisely  as  scien- 
tific as  the  proposition  that  twice  five  make  out  the  dozen. 
He  represents  the  age  in  a  way  in  which  a  fifth-monarchy 
man,  of  neplus  ultra  principles,  would  represent  the  age  of 
Cromwell.  Joe  Smith  would  be  considered  an  inappropri- 
ate hero  for  a  poem  descriptive  of  the  present  time.  I  am 
personally  of  opinion  that  he  might  be  made  the  centre  of 
a  great  poem.  But,  whether  or  no,  the  Mormon  leader 
would  represent  incomparably  more  of  the  present  time 
than  is  represented  by  Romney  Leigh.  Thus  delusive  as 
representative  of  his  time,  he  is  in  himself  unsubstantial. 
There  is  no  actuality  or  life  in  him :  He  wants  bone.  Noth- 
ing can  convince  the  reader  that  he  walks  the  solid  earth. 
Tliis  circumstance  is  fatal. 

The  general  conclusion  from  Mrs.  Browning's  new  poem 
is,  that  socialistic  schemes  are  nonsensical.  But  Mrs.  Brown- 
ing does  not  exhibit  the  slightest  degree  of  knowledge  of  the 
science  of  the  social  system,  the  special  science  of  the  present 
time.  She  has  studied  in  the  school  of  Carlyle :  the  doctrines 
and  methods  of  which  school  bear  almost  precisely  the  same  re- 
lation to  the  social  regeneration  of  peoples,  as  the  scholastic 
logic  bears  to  the  construction  of  railways.  Mrs.  Brown- 
ing has  not  even  skirted  the  border  of  that  realistic  field  in 
which  the  noblest  idealizations  of  the  present  time  are  to 
be  planted.  Facts  and  figures  are  not  poetry,  but  they  may 
be  the  materials  from  which  a  mighty  imagination  will  build 
up  the  noblest  poems.     Mrs.  Browning  has  such  an  imagin- 


202  MRS.    BARRETT    BROWNING 

ation.  But  she  has  no  surmise  that,  in  dry  statistical  tables 
is  to  be  found  the  most  glorious  theme  that  can  invite  im- 
agination in  these  years :  she  has  totally  overlooked  a  factor 
which  is  necessary,  I  say  not  to  the  solution,  but  to  the 
smallest  contribution  towards  a  solution,  of  the  great  prob- 
lem, at  which,  to  say  the  least,  she  looks.  To  reiterate  ab- 
stract maxims,  were  they  elaborated  by  the  combined  intel- 
lects of  Bacon  and  Goethe,  comes  here  to  little ;  to  discover 
that  misery  abounds  in  the  world  and  merely  to  depict  it, 
in  colors  however  true  and  striking,  is  almost  equally  value- 
less ;  to  fling  abroad  vague  denunciation  upon  those  who,  in 
good  and  in  bad  report,  with  less  light  or  with  more,  strive 
earnestly  through  long  years  to  benefit  their  fellow  men,  is 
in  itself  worse  than  useless,  and  has  now  become  hopelessly 
commonplace.  Through  the  whole  history  of  mankind, 
the  world  has  been  a  place  of  sorrow  as  of  sin.  The  bright- 
est year  that  ever  swept,  in  kindly  change  of  seasons,  over 
the  earth,  saw  enough  of  individual  distress,  to  drive  a  man, 
were  it  presented  to  his  imagination  with  vivid  poetic  power, 
raving  mad.  So  surely  as  the  race  continues  as  it  is,  so 
surely  must  this,  for  many  centuries  to  come,  be  still  the 
case.  The  man  who  cannot  deliberately  envisage  this  dread 
circumstance,  who  cannot  thus  look  before  and  after,  and 
yet  retain  the  faith  that  earth  is  a  place  in  which  to  live  and 
work,  becomes  a  rebel  against  the  order  of  things ;  in  con- 
sistence, he  ought  to  commit  suicide  or  accept  atheism.  But 
the  strong  and  healthful  man  will,  we  shall  agree,  find  it,  on 
the  whole,  rational  and  advisable  to  submit  to  the  condi- 
tions of  his  existence  and  to  believe  in  God.  To  enable 
him  to  do  so,  it  is  necessary  not  that  he  should  accept  any 
delusive  representation  of  the  present  or  Utopian  prediction 
for  the  future,  but  that  he  should  perceive  in  the  history  of 
man  a  progress,  that  he  should  be  assured  that,  however 


MRS.    BARRETT   BROWNING.  203 

slowly,  the  evil  and  the  sorrowful  recede,  and  the  good  and  the 
joyful  advance.  Now  there  is  one  fact  which  the  great  science 
of  statistics  has  already  proved,  in  reference  at  least  to  that 
island  which  is  the  principal  scene  of  Mrs.  Browning's  poem ; 
— that  crime  and  misery  are  on  the  decline.  Amid  all  the  vo- 
ciferation of  Mr.  Carlyle  and  his  school,  in  full  view  of  stupen- 
dous individual  crimes,  with  ready  admission  of  multitudinous 
cases  of  individual  distress,  the  wise  man  will  calmly  and  earn- 
estly fix  his  eye  on  this  fact ;  on  the  bare  figures  in  which  it  is 
inscribed  he  will  look  with  unspeakable  joy,  nay  reverence,  as  if 
he  saw  them  traced  in  light  by  the  finger  of  God.  Ahriman, 
they  proclaim,  though  fighting  sternly,  does  draw  back  his  foot. 
The  ocean  rolls  darkly  beneath  a  troubled  sky,  but  the  sand- 
grains  are  being  deposited,  year  by  year,  which  will  one 
day  build  the  broad  continent  right  into  the  sunlight.  The 
night  is  still  murky,  but  a  rim  of  light  slowly  broadens  out 
to  dawn.  How  magnificently,  how  epically,  might  Mrs. 
Browning,  with  such  an  imagination  as  hers,  have  concluded 
her  poem  by  showing  us  this  ring  of  light  on  the  horizon  of 
the  world,  this  aureole  which  proves  that  the  sorrowful 
earth  is  still  among  the  family  of  God !  But  except  out  of 
realism  no  true  idealization  can  arise ;  and  the  realism  which 
it  is  necessary  to  master  in  this  case  is  to  be  found  in  a 
science,  which  Mrs.  Browning  probably  despises  and  of  which 
she  is  certainly  ignorant.  The  conclusion  to  which,  in  Au- 
rora Zeigh,  we  are  conducted,  is  exceedingly  true,  and  is 
presented  in  very  beautiful  poetry :  but,  in  originality  and 
practical  utility,  it  is  not  one  whit  superior  to  the  doctrine 
preached  on  the  subject,  any  Sunday  in  the  year,  in  the 
churches  and  chapels  of  England.  Miss  Leigh's  platonism 
cannot  in  the  least  affect  the  state  of  the  case :  the  original- 
ity wanted  was  not  to  be  had  by  looking  across  two  thou- 
sand years,  but  by  accepting  the  present,  not  in  the  philos- 


204  MRS.    BARRETT   BROWNING. 

ophy  of  Plato,  but  in  criminal  reports,  in  the  history  of  free 
trade,  in  the  works  of  Grey,  MacCulloch  and  Chalmers,  in 
the  letters  of  Colonel  Jebb. 

Aurora  Leigh,  then,  despite  countless  beauties,  despite 
passages  sufficient  to  furnish  forth  anthology  after  anthology, 
despite  an  exuberant  display  of  that  genius  which  makes 
Mrs.  Browning  the  greatest  poetess  in  the  world,  is  a  failure. 
Why  is  it  so  ?  It  would  be  tiresome  and  probably  vain  to 
attempt  to  answer  the  question  at  length.  But  one  cause, 
perhaps  a  principal  cause,  seems  to  lie  in  that  recoil  from 
common  men  and  exoteric  doctrines,  to  which  an  early  refer- 
ence was  made.  The  influence  of  Mr.  Carlyle  upon  Mrs. 
Browning  has  been  very  powerful ;  and  it  has  been  evil.  To 
apply  to  her  the  words  used  in  a  different  connection  by  a 
thoroughly  able  writer  in  the  Edinburgh  Review,  she  has 
more  and  more  learned  from  Mr.  Carlyle  what  she  could 
not  have  learned  "  from  Greek  philosophy  or  Holy  Writ,  a 
fierce  and  unenlightened  disdain  ....  of  the  MUL- 
TITUDE." 

"  Heavens, 
I  think  I  should  be  almost  popular 
If  this  went  on  !  " 

So  exclaims  Aurora,  and  though  passages  might  be  quoted 
which  seem  to  point  to  a  different  conclusion,  this  indicates  the 
doctrine  of  the  book.  Yet  there  was  ONE  of  whom  his 
disciples  were  not  ashamed  to  declare  that  "  the  common 
people  heard  him  gladly." 

To  refer,  save  in  the  most  general  way,  to  Mrs.  Brown- 
ing's smaller  poems,  is  now  impossible.  Some  of  them,  as 
The  Cry  of  the  Children,  Cowper's  Grave,  The  Cry  of  the 
Human,  and  The  Sleep,  are  absolute  masterpieces.  The 
first  is  one  of  the  greatest  of  strictly  modem  poems.    It 


MRS.    BARRETT    BROWNING.  205 

demonstrates  that  a  pathos  may  be  got  out  of  cotton  fuzz 
and  rattling  machinery,  to  which  the  woes  of  Achilles  and 
Hector,  and  the  sublime  sorrows  of  battling  goddesses, 
around  windy  Troy,  were  a  very  poor  affair :  it  shows  that, 
though  tragedy  on  the  boards  may  be  looked  upon  with  very 
dry  eyes,  the  real  tragedy  is  still  amongst  us.  The  poem  re- 
minds us  of  Hood.  The  pathos  of  Hood  is  true  and  piercing ; 
it  is  the  pathos  of  bare  fact,  of  life ;  it  is  the  tear  of  sorrow 
itself,  falling  upon  the  heart.  But  The  Cry  of  the  Chil- 
dren^ to  a  realism  as  literal  as  Hood's,  adds  an  imagina- 
tive gleam  such  as  Hood  could  not  impart.  The  piece  is 
radiant  with  poetic  fervor.  There  is  perhaps  no  respect  in 
which  it  is  not  a  study :  in  language,  in  melody,  in  imagery, 
in  truthfulness. 

Cowper^s  Grave  is  an  outburst  of  emotion,  irrepressible 
in  its  earnestness,  unspeakable  in  its  tenderness.  Some  of 
the  thoughts  are  by  no  means  common,  and  some  of  the 
turns  might,  from  their  point  and  ingenuity,  almost  sug- 
gest the  word,  conceit :  but  a  passion  of  tenderness  glows 
so  visibly  over  the  whole,  that  we  think  no  more  of  premedi- 
tation than  if  we  witnessed  a  paroxysm  of  weeping. 

The  Cry  of  the  Human  does  not  omit  that  word,  with 
out  which  all  denunciation  of  man's  vice  and  shortcoming, 
all  lamentation  over  man's  misery,  must  be  pronounced 
aimless  fury  or  maudlin  puerility.  Mere  despair  at  the  sight 
of  sorrow,  mere  frenzied  indignation  at  the  sight  of  sin,  can 
beseem  no  man,  when  we  think  Who  atoned  for  human  sin, 
and  Who  shared  human  suffering. 

"  Then,  Soul  of  mine, 
Look  up  and  triumph  rather — 
Lo !  in  the  depth  of  God's  Divine, 
The  Son  adjures  the  Father — 
Be  pitiful,  O  God!" 

FIRST   SERIES.  18 


206  MRS.    BARRETT  BROWNING. 

The  Sleep  is  one  of  those  poems  of  Mrs.  Browning's,  in 
which  not  only  the  inmost  thought  and  feeling  are  beautiful 
and  simple,  but  in  which  no  veil  intervenes  between  these 
and  general  sympathy.  This  remark,  indeed,  extends,  more 
or  less,  to  all  the  pieces  now  under  notice.  In  her  smaller 
poems  Mrs.  Browning  seemed  to  be  working  fairly  clear  of 
what  must  be  called  her  mannerism.  In  these  she  stands 
before  us  in  no  classic  adornment,  clothed  on  with  the  per- 
fect beauty  of  her  own  womanliness  and  truth. 

"  O  earth,  so  full  of  dreary  noises ! 

O  men,  with  wailing  in  your  voices  I 

O  delved  gold,  the  wailers  heap ! 

O  strife,  O  curse,  that  o'er  it  fall ! 

God  strikes  a  silence  through  you  all, 
*  And  giveth  His  beloved  sleep.' 

His  dews  drop  mutely  on  the  hill, 
His  cloud  above  it  saileth  still, 
Though  on  its  slope  men  sow  and  reap. 
More  softly  than  the  dew  is  shed, 
Or  cloud  is  floated  overhead, 
1  He  giveth  His  beloved  sleep.' 
•  *  *  *  4c 

*  *  *  * 

And  friends,  dear  friends, — when  it  shall  be 
That  this  low  breath  is  gone  from  me, 
And  round  my  bier  ye  come  to  weep, 
Let  one,  most  loving  of  you  all, 
Say, '  Not  a  tear  must  o'er  her  fall  — 
He  giveth  His  beloved  sleep.' " 

The  man  who  cannot  feel  this  is  capable  of  no  poetic  feeling 
at  all.  Had  Mrs.  Browning  been  always  so  simply  herself; 
her  poems  might  be  found  on  every  cottage  shelf.    And 


MRS.    BARRETT   BROWNING.  207 

who  has  more  nobly  told  us  that  nature's  truth  is  better 
than  art's  conventions,  than  Mrs.  Browning  herself?  The 
.Dead  JPan,  another  poem  of  sustained  and  consummate 
excellence,  is  most  of  all  precious,  for  its  bold  modernism, 
and  haughty  protest  against  the  cant  of  classicism. 

"  Earth  outgrows  the  mythic  fancies 
Sung  beside  her  in  her  youth : 
And  those  debonaire  romances 

Sound  but  dull  beside  the  truth. 
Phoebus'  chariot-course  is  run. 
Look  up,  poets,  to  the  sun ! 

Pan,  Pan  is  dead. 
***** 
•  *  *  * 

Truth  is  fair :  should  we  forego  it  ? 
Can  we  sigh  right  for  a  wrong  ? 
God  Himself  is  the  best  Poet, 

And  the  Real  is  his  song. 
Sing  his  Truth  out  fair  and  full, 
And  secure  His  beautiful. 

Let  Pan  be  dead." 

These  words  are  worthy  of  a  time  of  universal  reaction 
towards  reality :  against  all  formalism  and  artifice ;  a  time 
which  has  seen  unveiled  the  face  of  Cromwell,  and  when 
Ruskin  is  flinging  open  to  the  peoples  the  gallery  of  Art. 

But  it  were  a  bootless  task  to  attempt  to  refer,  even  in  a 
word,  to  all  that  are  peculiarly  marked  among  Mrs.  Brown- 
ing's smaller  poems.  She  touches  in  them  a  thousand  chords 
of  feeling,  and  glances  into  unnumbered  spheres  of  thought. 
From  deep  metaphysical  musings,*  and  philosophical  deline- 
ations of  the  characteristics  of  the  age,  to  the  tenderest 
limnings  of  home  life,  they  exhibit  every  mood  of  thought 
and  emotion.     A  deep  tone  of  pathos  is  very  constantly 


208  MRS.    BARRETT   BROWNING. 

present,  its  pervading  idea  being  the  inextricable  blending 
of  joy  and  sorrow  in  the  lot  of  man,  the  necessity  that  there 
seems  of  all  joy  being  through  sorrow.  The  smile,  the 
mother  smile,  comes  on  a  cheek  white  with  an  "  eight-day 
weeping,"  and,  says  the  poetess, 

M  All  smiles  come  in  such  a  wise." 

"  "Who,"  she  asks,  "  can  love  and  rest  ?  "  But  neither 
does  she  ever  permit  the  shadow  to  fall  over  all  man's 
glory ;  she  knows  of  a  sky,  pure  and  blue,  above  all  plain- 
ing. 

"  Thy  voice  is  a  complaint,  O  crowned  city, 
The  blue  sky  covering  thee  4ike  God's  great  pity." 

This  last  is  but  an  instance  of  a  universal  characteristic 
of  Mrs.  Browning's  writings  on  which  one  loves  to  dwell. 
Somewhat  decided  language  has  been  applied  to  the  un- 
seemly familiarity  with  which  the  Divine  names  are  used  in 
Aurora  Leigh.  But  no  further  qualification  is  necessary  in 
asserting  the  pervasive  Christianity  of  Mrs.  Browning's 
works.  Over  all  the  domain  of  her  poetry,  over  its  central 
ranges,  its  quiet  gardened  valleys,  its  tinkling  rills,  falls  a 
radiance  of  gospel  light.  Ever,  as  her  music  rises  to  its 
noblest  cadence,  it  seems  taken  up  by  an  angel  harp :  the 
highest  tone  is  as  the  voice  of  spirits.  It  would,  I  cannot 
doubt,  be  to  their  own  sincere  enjoyment  and  real  profit,  if 
the  Christian  public  pressed  boldly  into  the  temple  of  Mrs. 
Browning's  song.  She"  is  a  Christian  poetess,  not  in  the 
sense  of  appreciating,  like  Carlyle,  the  loftiness  of  the 
Christian  type  of  character,  not  in  the  sense  of  adopting, 
like  Goethe,  a  Christian  machinery  for  artistic  self-worship, 
not  even  in  the  sense  of  preaching,  like  Wordsworth,  an 


MRS.   BARRETT   BROWNING.  209 

august  but  abstract  morality,  but  in  the  sense  of  finding, 
like  Cowper,  the  whole  hope  of  humanity  bound  up  in 
Christ,  and  taking  all  the  children  of  her  mind  to  him,  that 
he  may  lay  his  hand  on  them  and  bless  them.  It  is  well 
that  Mrs.  Browning  is  a  Christian.  It  is  difficult,  but  pos- 
sible, to  bear  the  reflection,  that  many  great  female  writers 
have  rejected  that  gospel  which  has  done  more  for  woman 
than  any  other  civilizing  agency ;  but  it  is  well  that  the 
greatest  woman  of  all  looks  up,  in  faith  and  love,  to  that 
Eye  which  fell  on  Mary  from  the  cross. 

The  greatest  woman  of  all !  This  is  my  firm  and  deliber- 
ate conviction.  I  am,  of  course,  not  acquainted  with  the 
works  of  all  great  female  writers,  perhaps  not  even  of  many. 
But,  as  you  look  towards  the  brow  of  a  towering  mountain, 
rising  far  over  the  clouds  and  crowned  with  ancient  snow, 
you  may  have  an  assurance,  even  though  it  rises  from  a 
plain,  or,  if  amid  lower  hills,  though  you  have  not  actually 
taken  the  elevation  of  each,  that  in  height  it  is  peerless. 
In  the  poems  of  Mrs.  Browning  are  qualities  which  admit 
of  their  being  compared  with  those  of  the  greatest  men ; 
touches  which  only  the  mightiest  give.  With  the  few  sov- 
ereigns of  literature,  the  Homers,  Shakspeares,  Miltons,  she 
will  not  rank.  But  in  full  recollection  of  Scott's  magical 
versatility  and  bright,  cheerful  glow,  of  Byron's  fervid  pas- 
sion and  magnificent  description,  of  Wordsworth's  majesty, 
of  Shelley's  million-colored  fancy,  of  Coleridge's  occasional 
flights  right  into  the  sun-glare,  of  Bailey's  marvellous  exu- 
berance, and  of  Tennyson's  golden  calm,  I  yet  hold  her 
worthy  of  being  mentioned  with  any  poet  of  this  century. 
She  has  the  breadth  and  versatility  t)f  a  man,  no  sameliness, 
no  one  idea,  no  type  character:  our  single  Shakspearean  wo- 
man. In  this  view  I  am  agreed  with  by  the  author  of  The 
Jiaven,  a  critic  of  great  acuteness  and  originality,  and  who 
18* 


210  MRS.    BARRETT   BROWNING. 

had  no  moral  or  religious  prepossessions  in  favor  of  Mrs. 
Browning. 

"Woman,  sister,  — "  says  Thomas  De  Quiney,  "there 
are  some  things  which  you  do  not  execute  as  well  as  your 
brother,  man ;  no,  nor  ever  will.  Pardon  me,  if  I  doubt 
whether  you  will  ever  produce  a  great  poet  from  your 
choirs,  or  a  Mozart,  or  a  Phidias,  or  a  Michael  Angelo,  or  a 
great  philosopher,  or  a  great  scholar.  By  which  last  is 
meant  —  not  one  who  depends  simply  on  an  infinite  memory, 
but  also  on  an  infinite  and  electrical  power  of  combination ; 
bringing  together  from  the  four  winds,  like  the  angel  of 
the  resurrection,  what  else  were  dust  from  dead  men's  bones, 
into  the  unity  of  breathing  life.  If  you  can  create  your- 
selves into  any  of  these  great  creators,  why  have  you  not  ?  " 

Mrs.  Browning  has  exalted  her  sex :  this  passage  was  true. 


IV. 

GLIMPSES  OF  RECENT  BRITISH  ART. 

A   DIALOGUE. 

*       *       *       Englishmen  of  pith, 

Sixteen  named  Thomson  and  nineteen  named  Smith.— Byron. 

Thomson,  Oh —  Mr.  Smith.  How  d'ye  do?  In  that 
good  old  English  salutation  everything  is  included, — 
wealth,  health,  and  family.  —  How  are  you  ? 

Smith.  All  well.  Everything  in  order  at  the  old  place. 
Crops  good,  boys  and  girls  well,  and  wife,  I  will  say, 
buxom,  blithe,  and  debonair  as  you  could  wish  an  English 
matron. 

Thorn.  And  you  have  given  all  your  country  comforts 
the  go-by  to  have  a  look  at  London  ? 

Smith.  Not  exactly.  Business  brought  me  to  town,  but 
to-day  I  am  free.  London,  you  know,  is  on  the  race-course, 
—  which  it  may  have  to  itself  for  me,  — and  I  have  seized 
the  opportunity  for  a  stroll  through  the  rooms  of  the 
Academy. 

Thorn.  Indeed.  This  is  fortunate.  You  know  my  love 
of  Art  ?  —  I,  too,  had  made  up  my  mind  to  avail  myself  of 
the  absence  of  fashion  and  dilettantism  to  inspect,  with 
favoring  quiet  and  leisure,  the  works  of  the  year.  Suppose 
we  make  a  day  of  it  —  looking  as  we  talk,  and  talking  as 
we  look  ? 


212         GLIMPSES    OF   RECENT  BRITISH   ART. 

Smith.  Agreed  —  most  heartily.  I  hold  you  something 
of  an  authority,  whereas  I  know  nothing  of  pictures,  and 
profess  no  opinion  on  the  subject.  I  know  when  I  am 
pleased,  and  my  pleasure  is  often  deep.  But  there  I  stop. 
I  have  a  feeling,  even,  that  I  have  but  a  questionable  right 
to  the  pleasure  I  experience.  I  am  one  of  the  common 
crowd,  hated  and  shunned  by  connoisseurs,  and  despised 
by  the  artists  whose  pictures  they  buy.  Like  the  rest  I 
bow  to  the  connoisseurs,  and  placidly  receive  what  artists 
condescend  to  tell  me.  But  with  you  I  am  free.  Even  if 
you  were  a  connoisseur  at  all  points,  which  you  are  not, 
the  indulgence  of  the  friend  would  vail  the  terror  of  the 
critic.  I  am  a  child,  of  course,  but  I  shan't  be  startled  at 
the  dreadful  crest ;  and  you  won't  hector,  will  you  ?  I  give 
in,  to  begin  with.  I  surrender  all  freedom  of  judgment, 
while  retaining  utmost  freedom  of  impression  and  remark. 
I  give  you  a  general  permission  to  laugh  at  me.  You  may 
even  give  me  a  smart  touch  with  the  whip,  when  I  am 
running  fairly  off  the  road.     I  know  nothing  of  pictures. 

Thorn.  Hm !  —  All  remarkably  fine.  Your  modesty  is 
no  counterfeit  —  that  I  know;  —  but  let  me  broadly  declare 
it  is  a  mistake.  We  shall  perhaps  contrive  to  raise  you 
somewhat  in  your  own  opinion  as  a  picture  critic.  In  the 
meantime,  what,  pray,  do  you  mean  by  "  having  no  knowl- 
edge of  painting  ? "  You  are  fond  of  Art.  You  make  at 
least  an  annual  visit  to  London,  to  see  whatever  pictures 
the  year  produces.  And  has  not  your  interest  in  Art  led 
you  to  read  a  little  on  the  subject  ? 

Smith.  Well,  really,  you  will  do  me  a  service  if  you 
teach  me  to  cast  myself  free  of  that  timorousness  with 
which  I  now  think  of  any  picture.  But  you  must  take  care 
that  a  worse  thing  come  not  upon  me ;  I  should  rather  be 
a  coward  among  critics,  than  a  pretender  among  dunces. 


GLIMPSES    OF   RECENT  BRITISH   ART.         213 

You  ask  what  I  mean  by  being  ignorant  of  painting.  Well, 
I  could  not  give  you  a  single  rule  of  perspective,  or  read, 
you  off  one  of  the  harmonies  of  color,  or  define  tone  or 
chiaroscuro.  In  one  word,  I  am  ignorant  of  the  technical 
part  of  painting.  I  cannot  paint,  and  I  do  not  know  the 
rules  of  painting.  Besides,  —  for  I  shall  make  a  clean  breast 
of  it,  —  I  have  a  lurking  preference  for  pictures  that  are 
bright,  clear,  clean,  new ;  and  I  fancy  I  might  give  my 
money  for  a  school  copy  with  just  as  much  heartiness 
as  if  I  bore  away  the  real  master.  Still  worse,  I  have  not 
nearly  the  due  measure  of  enthusiasm  for  the  said  masters. 
I  sigh  over  my  want  of  raptures  on  the  subject  of  Rubens's 
flesh-tint ;  and  when  I  catch  sight  of  a  number  of  undressed 
ladies,  even  though  the  catalogue  calls  them  Diana  and  her 
Nymphs,  and  even  though  it  be  Titian  who  draws  aside  the 
curtain  of — of — decency  —  I  am  despicably  inclined  to  get 
out  of  the  way.     In  short,  you  must  give  me  up. 

Thorn.  Not  quite  yet.  Nor  have  you  told  me  all  you 
have  to  tell.      There  is  a  positive  as  well  as  a  negative  side. 

Smith.  I  have  said  nearly  all  that  is  to  the  purpose,  I 
think.  But  you  would  ask  what  I  have  seen  and  read  in 
connection  with  Art  ?  There  is  a  little  to  tell  in  that  direc- 
tion. Plain  folks  as  we  are  in  the  Dell,  I  cannot  pretend  to 
a  total  ignorance  of  what  is  said,  seen,  and  written  in  the 
world.  There  is  no  excuse  now-a-days,  even  among  our 
fern  and  heather,  for  complete  ignorance.  Why, — think  of 
it.  I  read  in  the  afternoon,  at  my  tea  table,  the  debate  of 
last  night  in  the  House.  Every  rumor  which  circulates  in 
the  London  clubs,  political,  literary,  or  artistic,  finds  its 
way  to  us  in  a  few  hours.  I  hear  to-day  of  the  arrival  or 
production  of  a  new  painting :  to-morrow  I  mingle  with 
the  throng  inspecting  it.  Half  a  dozen  libraries  are  ready 
to  supply  me  with  every  new  work,  on  Art  as  on  every 


214  GLIMPSES    OF   RECENT  BRITISH   ART. 

other  subject.  I  do  n't  see,  therefore,  what  right  I  have  to 
be  inferior  in  Art-knowledge  to  townsmen  as  such.  I  im- 
agine that  I  am  not  so.  For  many  years  I  have  visited  all 
the  principal  exhibitions,  and  have  taken  pleasure  in  pene- 
trating, as  far  as  I  could,  into  the  truth  and  meaning  of  the 
pictures.  "What  with  this,  and  with  reading,  I  have  formed 
a  notion,  correct  or  not,  of  the  distinctive  ideas  which 
reigned  in  particular  schools,  and  of  the  way  in  which  sub- 
jects have  been  treated  by  particular  masters.  But  all  this 
is  beyond  the  pale  of  technical  knowledge  ;  all  this  is  out- 
side the  studio  ;  and  I  have  nothing  to  plead  in  arrest  of  the 
verdict  of  artistic  barbarism. 

Thorn.  Yery  good.  But  talking  threatens  to  encroach 
on  looking.  We  must  get  at  the  pictures.  As  you  have 
said  all  you  can  for  yourself,  however,  grant  me  just  another 
minute  to  see  whether  I  cannot  allege  something  additional 
in  your  favor.  There  is  a  little  matter  which  you  not  un- 
gracefully omit,  but  which  I  consider  of  paramount  impor- 
tance. You  know  nothing,  it  appears,  of  color.  You  are 
rather  hazy  in  chiaroscuro,  and  are  apt  to  lose  yourself  in 
golden  and  silvery  tones.  You  never  saw,  you  might  have 
added,  the  original  Venus  de  Medicis,  nor  affected  rapture 
over  Leonardo's  Supper  at  Milan.  Very  sad,  indeed !  Now 
I  happen  to  have  visited  you  in  that  Dell  of  yours,  so  sweetly 
sinking,  with  its  crag  and  copse,  from  the  general  level  of 
the  upland.  I  well  remember  a  walk  with  you,  one  fresh, 
dewy  morning,  which  would  have  been  dull  in  town,  but 
which  in  the  country  only  made  everything  more  rural, 
quiet,  country-like.  The  sky  was  of  course  well  filled  with 
broken  clouds.  No  other  composition  of  the  sky,  if  I  may 
steal  a  term  from  Art  and  apply  it  to  nature,  gives  at  once 
transparency  of  air,  pure  richness  of  color,  and  fine  effects 
of  light  and  shade.      There  was  a  moment  when  the  sun- 


GLIMPSES    OF    RECENT   BRITISH    ART.      .  215 

beams,  which  had  been  peeping  and  peering  for  an  outlet 
in  the  clouds  all  morning,  suddenly  streamed  through 
a  valley  opened  for  them  by  the  gentle  wind,  and 
spread  themselves  in  their  countless  companies  along  the 
faint  purple  of  the  hill.  The  gleam  of  their  golden  ban- 
ners shone  clear  against  the  shadow  which  was  still 
lying  dark  over  the  greater  part  of  the  mountain.  The 
eyes  of  both  of  us  were  at  once  on  the  ridge,  which  had 
caught  the  light ;  and  when  I  looked  at  yours,  shall  I  tell 
you  what  I  saw  there  ?  If  not  exactly  a  tear,  at  least  a 
glistening  which  told  that  the  heart  required  some  kind  of 
overflow.  Nor  have  I  forgotten  that  day,  when,  like  a 
good,  respectable  Mr.  Smith,  you  drove  me  to  the  market- 
town  in  your  own  gig.  It  was  about  the  end  of  July.  As 
we  passed  along,  a  cornfield  lay  by  the  wayside.  Through 
it  the  hand  of  autumn  had  just  begun  to  sprinkle  the  gold 
into  which  melts  the  green  of  summer;  and,  amidst  this 
golden-green,  myriads  of  poppies  waved  their  crimson 
flames.  "  These,"  you  exclaimed,  casting  a  glance  in  the 
direction  of  the  poppies,  "  take  a  pretty  penny  out  of  my 
pocket,  but  for  two  reasons  I  am  happy  to  pay  the  price  ; 
first,  because  of  the  pure  delight  of  the  color,  and  second, 
because  that  one  sight,  to  leave  out  a  thousand  others,  and 
the  emotion  it  excites,  are  amply  sufficient  to  annihilate, 
Once  for  all,  the  theory  of  beauty  professed  and  defended 
by  Francis  Jeffrey." 

Smith.  Ah,  let  me  interrupt  you.  Perhaps  that  was 
severe  on  Jeffrey.  His  dissertation  is  extremely  valuable 
as  a  classification  of  what  the  beautiful  is  not.  It  is  a  mon- 
ument cere  perennius;  only  you  must  turn  it  upside  down ! 
Go  on. 

Thorn.  Now,  of  whatever  precise  value  it  may  be,  I  think 
I  need  not  prove  that  in  estimating  one's  capacity  for  judg-. 


21o         GLIMPSES    OF   RECENT    BRITISH  ART. 

ing  in  Art,  it  is  at  least  well  to  know  his  power  to  observe 
and  enjoy  the  beauty  of  nature.  The  instances  I  have  ad- 
duced show  that,  whatever  you  may  say  of  the  landscapes 
of  the  former,  you  are  not  indifferent  to  those  of  the  latter. 
Were  I  to  pass  beyond  landscape,  and  inquire  in  the  same 
way  into  your  fitness  to  form  an  opinion  on  painting  of 
human  life,  I  should  find  my  case  still  stronger.  Nothing 
human  have  I  ever  known  which  did  not,  one  way  or  other, 
interest  and  attract  you.  I  have  seen  you  look  with  genial 
curiosity  on  the  equipages,  the  dresses,  the  languid  smiles, 
the  artificial  flowers,  of  Hyde  Park.  I  have  seen  you  mark 
with  stronger  interest,  and  sympathy  far  more  ardent,  the 
glowing  cheeks  and  glittering,  twinkling  eyes  of  the  hay- 
makers in  your  own  fields.  I  think  you  would  know  the 
mark  of  human  feeling  wherever  you  saw  it,  in  field,  in 
street,  or  on  canvas.  But  we  can  put  this  to  the  proof  at 
once.     Look  here.    "What  think  you  of  this  picture  ? 

Smith.  It  impresses  and  delights  me :  more  I  shall  not 
yet  venture  to  say. 

Thorn.  But  wherein  consists  your  pleasure  ?  What  do 
you  see  in  the  picture  ?  Read  me  off  your  impressions  as 
clearly  as  you  can. 

Smith.  I  shall  make  the  attempt.  It  seems  to  me,  as  I 
look,  that  there  gradually  dawns  upon  me  the  whole  modu- 
lated beauty  of  a  lyric  poem,  written  not  in  alphabetical 
characters  but  in  soft,  sweet,  variegated  light.  There  is 
before  me  the  well  stored  room,  kitchen  and  sitting-room 
in  one,  of  a  homely  yet  substantial  farmhouse.  The  wife 
of  the  good  yeoman  is  seated  on  the  left,  beautiful  with  the 
beauty  of  joy  and  health,  her  cheek  white  and  ruddy,  her 
whole  face  bathed  in  the  tender  illumination  of  that  smile, 
which  prosperity  never  fails  to  light  upon  the  countenance 
of  a  true  woman.    She  is  perfectly  happy  and  contented  in 


GLIMPSES    OF    RECENT    BRITISH  ART.         217 

her  babe,  lying  there  in  her  lap,  in  rosy,  healthy  slumber. 
That  woman  is  a  realization  of  all  that  is  kind,  vigilant, 
comforting,  blissful,  in  the  character  and  office  of  a  mother. 
The  yeoman's  boys,  stout,  hearty  little  fellows,  who  spend 
nine  tenths  of  their  time  in  leaping  and  shouting  in  the 
fields,  are  seen  near  their  mother.  And  what  boy  is  that 
beside  them  ?  What  child  is  it,  who  has  glided  in  through 
the  half-open  door,  and  stands,  in  his  thin  rags,  his  little  cap 
in  his  hand,  looking  up,  submissively,  piteously,  into  the 
face  of  the  old  grandmother  ?  Why  is  he  so  woe-begone, 
so  forlorn,  weary-looking,  beside  the  jocund  children  of  the 
farmer  ?  He  is  The  Mitherless  Bairn!  Look  at  that  babe 
on  its  mother's  knee,  and  those  boys  standing  beside.  The 
blessedness  of  a  mother's  smile  rests  on  them  visibly,  red- 
dening on  their  cheeks,  beaming  in  their  eyes.  To  the 
right,  the  brood-hen  has  come  fussing  on  the  floor,  followed 
by  one  or  two  chickens.  Even  these  are  cared  for  !  But 
that  feeble,  trembling  child  stands  alone,  —  homeless,  un- 
cared  for,  motherless.  In  all  this,  there  is  a  felicitous 
truth,  a  telling  lyrical  contrast,  such  as  I  might  hope  for 
from  a  Burns,  a  Crabbe,  or  a  Thorn.  And  the  artist  has, 
with  a  wise  tenderness,  relieved  the  mere  sadness  of  his 
story,  by  letting  me  know,  in  the  softened  look  of  the 
grandmother  and  the  dewy  smile  of  the  mother,  that  the 
little  stranger  has  this  day  found  a  home.  These  are  my 
impressions  of  Mr.  Faed's  picture. 

Thorn.  Exactly.  And  yet  you  pretend  to  be  unable  to 
form  an  opinion  touching  its  merits !  Is  it  not  an  extreme 
absurdity  that  people  will  stand  by  such  a  picture,  the  very 
tears  in  their  eyes  attesting  their  power  of  appreciation, 
and  disclaim  all  right  to  have  an  opinion  regarding  it  ? 

Smith.  Ha!  — I  trust  I  have  made  my  first  step  to  the 
acquisition  of  that  valuable  human  quality,  conceit.     But 

FIRST   SERIES.  19 


218         GLIMPSES    OF    RECENT    BRITISH  ART. 

this  picture  is  of  the  simplest  kind,  and  I  suppose  I  must 
not  attempt  to  deny  that  men  of  natural  feeling  and  ordi- 
nary culture  may  appreciate  pictures  of  that  school,  of 
which  the  great  Wilkie  and  the  greater  Hogarth  are  in 
Britain  the  legitimate  masters.  But  I  should  be  at  a  loss 
if  you  asked  me  to  criticise  the  quality  of  the  painting, 
strictly  so  called,  even  in  this  picture ;  and  I  am  not  sure 
that  I  should  not  be  deceived  into  purchasing  a  poor  copy 
of  it  after  seeing  the  original.  What  have  you  to  say  to 
that? 

Thorn.  We  shall  see.  But  you  must  not  imagine  that 
I  pronounce  extended  acquaintance  with  pictures  of  no 
importance,  or  undervalue  any  kind  of  artistic  knowledge 
accessible  to  people  in  general.  I  maintain,  merely,  that 
the  knowledge  which  is  necessary  to  the  Artist,  the  en- 
tire range  of  those  subjects  which  relate  to  the  producing 
methods  of  Art, — the  laws  of  perspective,  of  coloring,  and 
so  on, — are  foreign  to  the  sphere  both  of  the  beholder  and 
the  critic.  This  truth,  —  which  I  hold  to  be  demonstra- 
ble, we  may  indirectly  illustrate  in  the  course  of  this  our 
dialogue,  —  which,  by  the  way,  will,  I  hope,  be  rambling. 

Smith.  Oh,  rambling  by  all  means.  You  and  I,  I  rather 
think,  are  not  the  men  to  converse  in  the  linear  dialectics 
of  those  hard  fellows  who  talked  under  the  Greek  plane 
trees.  Fancy,  whim,  the  caprice  of  the  moment,  the  sug- 
gestion of  a  word  or  glance,  have  a  place  in  conversation. 
I  believe  that  these  are  not  only  among  the  most  potent  of 
the  elements  which  make  airy,  vivacious,  sincere,  confiding 
talk  one  of  the  supreme  pleasures,  but  that  they  cast  at 
times  such  revealing  side-gleams  upon  truth  and  beauty,  as 
bring  out  more  subtle  and  pointed  intellectual  views,  and 
more  rare  and  delicate  lights  of  loveliness,  than  can  be 
obtained  by  the  elaborate  method  of  study  and  composi- 


GLIMPSES    OF   RECENT    BRITISH    ART.         219 

tion.  It  has  sometimes  occurred  to  me  that  the  best  things 
ever  uttered  may  have  been  uttered  in  conversation ;  and 
it  is  my  settled  conviction  that  the  conversation  of  men 
of  culture,  trained  in  the  expression  of  their  ideas,  is  very 
nearly  as  accurate  —  even  formally  and  grammatically  —  as 
their  published  writings. 

Thorn.  We  shall  not  confine  ourselves,  then,  to  any 
stated  topic,  but  glance  generally  round  the  horizon  of  Art, 
tarrying  a  little  wherever  an  opening  into  the  pure  blue 
may  draw  our  eyes  with  promise.  But  another  word  just 
now  as  to  this  deceivability  by  copies,  which  seems  to  lie  so 
heavily  upon  you.  The  danger  is  neither  so  great  nor  so 
important  as  you  imagine.  You  must  remember,  to  begin 
with,  that  the  difference  between  high,  or  even  the  highest 
truth  and  beauty,  as  embodied  in  a  work  of  Art,  and  what  is 
commonplace,  may  be  not  only  not  very  easily  perceptible 
but  actually  slight.  It  may  be  the  dewdrop,  scarcely  noted 
by  the  eye,  yet  making  one  rose  the  fairest  of  the  garden. 
It  may  be  the  inscrutable  somewhat,  of  beauty  and  music, 
which  renders  one  poem  a  household  term,  a  nation's  watch- 
word, for  ages,  while  another,  in  which  you  can  hardly 
define  an  inferiority,  is  a  mere  fleeting  popularity.  It  may 
be  the  nameless,  indescribable  expression,  lending  to  one 
face  a  subduing  and  incomparable  witchery,  whose  absence 
from  another,  with  features  of  even  higher  order,  leaves  a 
countenance  insipid  and  commonplace.  The  difference  of 
a  hair's-breadth  in  line  may  be  that  which  sets  Phidias  and 
Michael  Angelo  at  the  head  of  sculpture :  a  diminution,  if 
possible  still  less,  in  the  ethereal  mildness  and  saintly  ele- 
gance of  Raphael,  might  have  cost  him  his  throne  among 
painters.  Now  I  think  the  original  may  be  distinguished 
from  the  copy,  by  bearing  well  in  mind  this  last  and  exqui- 
site difference,  not  to  be  defined  in  words.    The  master  has 


220         GLIMPSES    OF   RECENT   BRITISH  ART. 

rested  on  his  work.  There  is  in  it  a  patient  intensity  of 
care.  Its  tints  blend  more  delicately,  more  elusively,  than 
in  the  copy.  Its  lines  have  either  the  sweep  or  the  accu- 
racy that  belonged  to  but  one  hand.  An  artist,  familiar 
with  the  operations  of  drawing  and  painting,  may  have 
peculiar  skill  in  detecting  a  certain  quality  of  lines  as  lines, 
or  of  colors  as  colors ;  and  here  the  man  devoid  of  techni- 
cal knowledge  is  at  a  disadvantage.  But  a  master  is  to 
be  distinguished  by  his  effect  as  well  as  his  means,  by  the 
result  as  well  as  the  processes  by  which  it  has  been  at- 
tained ;  —  a  certain  depth  and  clearness  of  sky,  neither 
more  nor  less,  a  certain  truth  of  feeling,  a  certain  approxi- 
mation to  the  softness  and  the  color  of  a  living  face.  And 
on  these  points,  a  thorough  acquaintance,  on  the  one  hand 
with  nature,  and  on  the  other  with  this  master's  power  of 
approaching  her,  is  all  that  is  required  in  order  to  ability  to 
discriminate  his  work  from  a  counterfeit.  All  this,  I  need 
not  say,  is  distinct  from  technical  power  of  hand  or  eye. 
Your  knowledge  must  be  accurate,  your  practice  great,  but 
neither  the  knowledge  nor  the  practice  demands  any  ac- 
quaintance with  artistic  methods.  Have  you  not  found 
this  so  ?  Do  you  not,  after  all,  believe  in  your  liability  to 
be  deceived,  more  because  the  connoisseurs  tell  you  that  it 
must  attach  to  you,  than  from  positive  experience  ? 

Smith.  I  am  bound  to  confess  that  there  is  some  truth 
in  your  words.  And,  in  fact,  for  that  matter,  both  artists 
and  connoisseurs  fall  into  error  on  the  subject  of  originals 
and  copies,  to  all  appearance  about  as  readily  as  ordinary 
mortals. 

Thorn.  Of  course.  What  is  still  more,  this  of  distin- 
guishing between  copies  and  originals,  though  made  very 
much  of,  is  not  of  the  first  importance,  after  all.  Art  will 
never  be  much  worth  as  an  influence  on  the  public  mincl, 


GLIMPSES    OF   RECENT   BRITISH    ART.        221 

until  we  learn  to  respect  work  for  its  own  sake,  and  not  for 
the  name  it  bears.  The  craftsman  can  never  be  an  artist ; 
the  copyist  does  not  necessarily  share  one  spark  of  the 
genius  of  the  master :  but  while  I  have  the  thought,  the 
feeling,  the  truth  of  the  artist  conveyed  to  me  by  a  copy, 
I  shall  prize  the  picture,  just  as  I  should  the  book,  which,  by 
means  of  types  arranged  by  a  nameless  printer,  transmits  to 
me  the  thoughts  of  a  Plato  or  a  Luther.  But  we  are  again 
forgetting  the  pictures  around  us.  You  must  allow  me  to 
throw  the  rein  right  over  the  neck  of  my  enthusiasm  as  I 
look  upon  Mr.  Faed's  principal  work  of  the  year, — Highland 
Mary.  This  is  one  of  those  pictures  for  which  I  am  ready 
to  thank  and  bless  an  artist :  so  deep,  so  delicate,  so  pure  is 
the  pleasure  it  imparts ;  so  beautiful  and  unsullied  are  the 
emotions  it  awakens ;  so  sweetly  attractive,  so  airy,  so  end- 
less the  imaginings  it  evokes ;  so  thickly-crowding,  so 
noble,  so  natural,  the  thoughts  and  associations  it  suggests. 
Highland  Mary  is  on  her  way  back  from  Ayrshire,  and  has 
already  reached  the  mountains  of  native  Argyllshire.  She 
rests  by  the  wayside.  Around  her  are  mountain  flowers, 
— the  fox-glove,  the  heath-bell.  In  the  distance  the  view 
is  closed  in  by  the  blue  and  gray  of  the  hills.  With  one 
hand  she  draws  closer  round  her  her  plaid  of  tartan.  Her 
other  rests  on  the  little  scarlet  bundle  in  her  lap.  Her  hair  is 
bound  by  a  simple  blue  braid,  and  the  blue,  gray,  and  russet  of 
her  dress  combine  into  a  pleasing  harmony  of  color.  Every- 
thing breathes  a  subdued  but  tender  loveliness;  not  the 
loveliness  of  Greece,  not  the  loveliness  of  Italy ;  not  the 
loveliness  of  regal  purple  or  queenly  jewels ;  but  that  which 
lurks  in  the  sequestered  dell  or  about  heathery  braes,  and 
which  peeps  out  here  and  there  from  the  cottage  and  the 
dress  of  the  peasant.  But  this  is  not  all.  There  is  a  pic- 
ture within  the  picture.  There  is  a  central  beauty,  to  which 
19* 


222        GLIMPSES    OF   RECENT   BRITISH   ART. 

all  the  rest  of  the  loveliness  ministers,  and  up  to  which  it 
leads.  This  is  the  face  of  the  figure  ;  that  face  of  Highland 
Mary  which  beams  on  you  from  the  hill  side,  holding  you 
with  its  pensive  beauty,  so  faultless  yet  so  Scottish.  The 
full,  ripe  lips  are  closed  in  silent  kindliness  and  love,  no 
Paphian  curve  expressing  the  consciousness  or  pride  of 
beauty.  On  the  cheek  rests  the  color  of  the  mountain  rose, 
that  indivisible  blending  of  the  dawn-red  and  the  snow- 
white,  which  is  nature's  highest  effort  in  hue.  The  eye, 
soft,  deep  blue,  looks  out  in  maiden  purity  beneath  the  un- 
wrinkled  maiden  brow.  Spread  over  the  whole  face, 
breathing  through  its  every  feature,  what  thought  is  that 
which  is  its  life  and  spirit?  Ah,  we  can  guess  it  well! 
Highland  Mary  is  dreaming  of  that  strange  Ayrshire  youth 
from  whom  she  lately  parted ;  that  swarthy  youth  with  the 
glittering  eye,  in  whose  words  dwelt  so  potent,  so  perilous 
a  fascination.  She  thinks  of  Robert  Burns.  A  thousand 
fancies  and  questions,  of  virgin  pride,  of  womanly  ambition, 
of  glad,  loving  surmise,  are  whirling  in  summer  tempest, 
spanned  by  its  rainbow,  through  her  breast.  Further  than 
this  the  poet -painter  does  not  reveal :  but  who  can  hinder 
imagination  from  looking  somewhat  beyond,  and  seeing  the 
lowly  headstone  in  the  highland  churchyard,  beneath  which 
so  soon  were  laid  all  the  earthly  hopes  and  loves  of  High- 
land Mary ! 

Smith.  Permit  me  to  express  my  decided  hope  that 
your  Pegasean  enthusiasm  has  finished  its  flight,  and  to  con- 
gratulate you  both  on  the  emptiness  of  the  rooms  and  the 
patience  of  your  one  listener.  But  Mr.  Faed's  is  no  doubt 
a  beautiful  picture,  a  work  of  unquestionable  genius.  Have 
you  reflected  on  the  seeming  difficulty  of  painting  a  really 
beautiful  female  face  ?  No  manifestation  of  beauty  exercises 
so  entrancing  a  power  over  man.     The  grace  of  the  forest, 


GLIMPSES   OF   RECENT   BRITISH   ART.        223 

the  color  of  the  garden,  the  evening  on  the  sea,  the  morn- 
ing on  the  mountains, — all  these  possess  but  a  feeble 
enchantment  compared  with  that  of  the  countenance  of 
a  lovely  woman.  I  must  add  that  the  power  to  bring 
this  beauty  upon  canvas  is  very  rare  among  artists.  Faed 
is  one  of  the  few  painters  who  has  an  unerring  eye  for 
female  beauty ;  among  living  painters  he  seems  to  be  with- 
out an  equal  in  this  department.  I  trust  that  nothing  may 
induce  him  to  desert  the  manifest  walk  of  his  genius. 

This  picture  pleases  me,  also,  because  it  supports  a  little 
theory  of  mine,  which,  countryman  as  I  am,  has  been 
discussed  more  than  once  at  my  fireside.  In  perception  of 
what  may  be  called  typal  loveliness,  in  capacity  to  apprc 
hend  abstract  and,  so  to  speak,  geometrical  beauty,  partic- 
ularly of  the  human  face  and  form,  the  Greeks  surpassed 
all  nations.  In  the  very  accuracy  of  their  perceptions 
here,  might  lie,  partially  at  least,  the  cause  of  that  restric- 
tion of  their  sympathy  for  the  beautiful,  which  contrasts 
with  the  expansiveness  of  the  Gothic  spirit.  Grant  that 
there  was  a  certain  meagreness,  a  sameliness,  a  too  scrupu- 
lous elegance,  in  their  sense  of  beauty ;  grant  that  they 
bound  the  zone  of  Yenus  a  little  too  tightly ;  yet  I  think 
you  will  find  that  with  them  lay  the  discovery  of  those 
essential,  geometrical  forms,  of  which  all  beauty  in  lines 
must  be  a  modification.  This  face  in  Mr.  Faed's  picture  is 
perfectly  Scotch.  The  brown  .hair  verging  to  golden,  the 
cheek  somewhat  round  and  full,  the  general  tendency  to 
depart  from  the  perfect  oval,  —  these  all  abandon  the 
Aphrodite  model.  Yet  the  Greek  type  is  discernible.  It 
is  seen  in  the  proportion  and  unity  of  the  features,  in  the 
chiselling  of  the  brow,  in  the  delicate  straightness  of  the 
nose.  It  is  the  Greek  ideal  of  female  loveliness,  only  not 
shaped    from  iEgean  foam,   or  breathed   on  by  JEgean 


224        GLIMPSES    OF   RECENT    BRITISH  ART. 

breezes.  It  grew  amid  the  mountain  heather,  and  its 
cheek  was  visited  by  the  rough  wind  of  Scotland. 

Thorn.  It  is  unpleasant  to  hint  an  objection  to  such  a 
picture,  and  while  Mr.  Faed  gives  us  such  beauty,  I  for  one 
have  not  the  heart  to  bid  him  venture  on  any  modification 
of  his  system.     But  what  da  you  think  of  that  background  ? 

Smith.  The  mountains  are  certainly  generalized.  I  can- 
not say  I  like  generalization ;  but  you  know  the  connois- 
seurs are  very  terrifying  on  that  subject. 

Thorn.  "We  must  be  too  severe  neither  with  Mr.  Faed 
nor  with  the  connoisseurs.  That  the  background  of  this 
picture  is  generalized,  there  can  be  no  doubt.  The  painter 
evidently  concentrated  his  power  upon  his  figure,  and  left 
the  trees  and  hills  in  great  measure  to  the  brush.  Yet  the 
generalization  is  not  extreme.  The  mountains,  you  observe, 
are  by  no  means  strictly  conventional,  —  in  form  at  least. 
They  are  bold  and  serrated,  true  to  the  general  type  of  the 
Argyllshire  mica  schists.  Mr.  Faed  has  evidently  looked 
on  these  mountains,  and  that  with  a  penetrating,  mindful 
eye.  So  much  on  his  behalf.  To  the  connoisseurs  it 
must  be  conceded,  that  their  theory  of  generalization,  if 
not  true,  is  an  apology  for  and  aim  at  truth,  —  and  finds 
its  analogue  in  nature.  "What  is  that  theory  ?  It  is  that 
every  picture  should  have  one  central  interest,  idea,  object ; 
that  everything  ought  to  be  subordinated  to  this;  and 
that,  therefore,  the  painter  should  fling  in  his  backgrounds 
in  broad,  general,  conventional  masses,  lest  the  minute 
perfection  of  their  painting  arrest  the  attention  of  the 
beholder,  and  diminish  the  power  of  the  central  idea. 
Now,  it  is  unquestionably  true  that  nature  teaches  and 
pleases  by  single  effects,  keeping  in  view  particular  objects 
in  particular  cases,  to  the  marked,  though  not  entire,  ex- 
clusion of  others.     The  carolling  of  the  birds  in  temperate 


GLIMPSES   OF   RECENT  BRITISH   ART.         225 

climates,  the  songs  of  the  linnet,  the  lark,  the  blackbird, 
are  plainly  intended  to  be  delightful  to  man,  and  poets  in 
all  ages  have  testified  to  the  completeness  of  success  with 
which  the  intention  has  been  carried  out.  It  is  equally 
manifest  that  the  colors  of  tropical  birds  —  the  most  bril- 
liant of  nature's  colors,  though  inferior,  in  all  qualities  save 
brilliancy,  to  the  color  of  flowers  and  precious  stones  —  are 
intended  to  be  a  source  of  joy.  .  I  do  not  mean,  of  course, 
to  assert  that  everything  on  earth  is  meant  exclusively  for 
man.  The  manifestation  of  his  own  glory  and  perfection  is 
an  all-sufficing  end  to  the  Creator.  Yet  is  it  true  that 
man,  in  virtue  of  his  Divine  origin  and  relationship,  has 
had  his  eye  so  far  opened  to  the  mystery  of  nature,  that 
the  mode  in  which  he  is  affected  by  any  natural  phenomenon 
may  lead  him  on  by  gentle  hints  to  the  intention  of  nature 
in  the  case.  In  the  contrasted  instances  I  have  quoted,  the 
unmistakable  effect  aimed  at,  in  the  one,  was  of  sound,  in 
the  other,  of  color.  And  what  I  would  have  specially 
observed,  is  the  singleness  of  the  effect  in  either  case.  The 
plumage  of  the  nightingale  does  not  divert  your  attention 
from  her  note :  you  listen  in  vain  for  anything  beyond  an 
unmusical  screech,  from  the  bird  that  glances  with  dazzling 
flash  through  the  gloom  of  southern  forests.  Look,  again, 
to  the  vegetable  world.  Take  the  two  great  families,  dis- 
criminated for  Art,  not  for  Science,  of  the  flowers  and  the 
trees.  Of  all  the  ministers  of  beauty,  pure  and  simple, 
flowers  are  the  best  accredited:  their  office  in  creation  it 
is  impossible  to  mistake.  "  What  is  the  use  of  flowers  ? " 
This  question,  in  its  generally  received  implication,  is  one  of 
the  most  foolish  and  ignoble  which  can  be  put.  Economic 
use  they  have  none.  They  are  nature's  living  antithesis  to 
economic  use.  They  exist  to  be  admired,  looked  at,  loved. 
They  are  chalices  of  Divine  workmanship,  of  purple,  and 


226  GLIMPSES    OF   RECENT   BRITISH   ART. 

scarlet,  and  liquid  gold,  from  which  man  is  to  drink  the 
pure  joy  of  beauty.  But  remark  that  the  whole  attention 
of  nature  is  concentrated  on  what  is  specifically  and  exclu- 
sively the  flower,  —  on  the  part  that  blooms  into  color  and 
breathes  fragrance,  —  in  cutting  its  petals,  and  touching 
them  with  pure  and  perfect  hues.  Whether  you  will  or 
no,  your  attention  is  fixed  on  the  colored  part ;  you  think 
not  of  the  rest  of  the  plant ;  it*furnishes  merely  the  stalk, 
it  finds  its  sole  merit  in  supporting  the  flower.  That  a  rose 
is  intended  to  glorify  God  in  its  color  is  to  me  as  evident  a 
truth  as  that  man  is  intended  to  glorify  Him  in  worship. 
"When  we  turn  to  the  trees,  there  is  a  broad,  an  unmis- 
takable difference.  Through  all  the  kingdoms  of  inanimate 
nature,  trees  are  peerless  in  form.  The  shape  of  the  wave 
is  beautiful,  but  it  is  samely.  The  forms  of  the  clouds  are 
beautiful  and  of  utmost  variety,  but  their  beauty  is  vast 
and  grand,  not  coming  quickly  home  to  the  human  mind, 
and  not  unfrequently  stretching  into  long  straight  lines,  or 
losing  itself  in  shapeless  hugeness.  But  the  forms  of  forest 
foliage  have  a  variety,  whispering  of  nature's  infinitude ;  they 
are  precisely  of  a  size,  and  are  precisely  so  placed  as  to 
render  them  obvious  to  the  eye;  and,  in  their  chastened, 
regulated,  consummate  beauty,  they  never  fail.  '  The 
birch,  with  nodding  plumes  as  of  the  forest  queen,  and 
waving  tresses  as  of  the  woodland  maiden ;  the  elm,  with 
its  imperial  drapery,  and  majestic  yet  graceful  port,  a 
"Queen  Elizabeth"  among  trees;  the  elastic,  defiant,  soar- 
ing beech,  its  boughs  seeming  to  leap  into  the  sky: — these, 
and  how  many  others,  present  the  finest  compositions  in 
abstract  form  presented  in  the  whole  range  of  inanimate 
nature.  But  here  again  a  central  purpose  is  unmistakably 
traceable.  There  are  no  flowers  now  to  draw  the  eye  from 
the  arching  of  the  leaves  and  the  grouping  of  the  boughs ; 


GLIMPSES    OF   RECENT    BRITISH   ART.         227 

no  local  intensity,  no  concentration  of  color,  prevents  it 
from  resting  calmly  on  the  broad  sweeps  of  green  which 
robe  but  conceal  not  the  majesty  of  the  form.  Among 
trees  themselves,  a  manifestation  of  the  same  law  of  unity 
—  or  rather  a  thousand  manifestations  —  may  be  found. 
The  fruit  tree  has  no  fineness  of  form,  nor  is  it  valuable  as 
timber ;  but  what  it  wants  in  form  and  timber,  it  makes  up 
in  flower  and  fruit.  Its  wood  is  valueless  compared  with 
that  of  the  oak,  its  form  paltry  compared  with  that  of  the 
elm :  but  no  tree  of  the  forest  can  boast  of  apple-bloom  in 
spring,  and  the  golden  and  roseate  offerings  of  many  an 
autumn  atone  for  the  worthlessness  of  the  fallen  trunk. 

To  conclude  this  whole  matter,  so  far  as  nature  is  con- 
cerned,—  the  provinces  of  creation,  in  the  illimitable 
variegation  of  their  beauties,  are  filled  with  separate  unities, 
with  accomplished  individual  aims,  not  with  one  vast 
uniformity.  Nature  is  always  perfect ;  but  perfect  in  her 
wholes ;  part  is  related  to  part,  and  the  less  beautiful  has 
given  the  oil  of  its  own  waning  lamp  to  kindle  the  greater 
flame  of  loveliness. 

I  should  transgress  all  bounds  if  I  attempted  to  inquire 
at  length  into  the  manner  in  which  Art  embodies  and 
reflects  the  laws  of  nature.  But  I  think  we  shall  agree  in 
not  entertaining  a  doubt  as  to  the  general  principle,  that 
nature's  laws  of  beauty  reappear  in  human  sympathy  with 
beauty.  The  universal  law  I  have  noted  has  in  all  ages 
found  its  counterpart,  its  echo,  in  the  universal  and  impor- 
tunate demand  made  by  the  human  instinct  in  every  depart- 
ment of  Art  for  unity.  In  all  poetry,  from  the  epigram  to 
the  epic,  unity  is  indispensable.  Whether  in  the  single 
glimpse  of  thought,  the  momentary  thrill  of  feeling,  or  in 
describing  the  ruin  of  planets  and  the  procession  of 
creations,  there  must  always  be  the  restraining,  governing, 


223         GLIMPSES    OF    RECENT   BRITISH  ART. 

unifying  law.  The  thought  may  be  sharpened  into  a  single 
epigrammatic  dagger :  then  it  must  not  be  beaten  into 
length  or  breadth,  or  overladen  with  jewelry  ;  and  it  must 
have  no  rust  to  dim  its  keen  glittering,  or  to  eat  off  its 
invisible  edge..  The  feeling  may  be  one  pulse  of  emotion 
to  dance,  like  a  gush  of  summer  lightning,  along  the  veins : 
then  it  must  be  poured  forth  in  one  lyric  swell,  every  word 
a  note  of  music,  every  line  a  gleam  of  light.  -  Or  an  immeas- 
urable variety  both  of  thought  and  emotion  may  have  to  be 
portrayed ;  philosophy,  religion,  love,  may  pass  and  repass 
on  the  page :  but  here  too,  every  episode  must  be  governed 
by  one  central  law  ;  and  the  most  uncultured  taste  will  be 
offended,  in  profound  unconsciousness  as  to  the  reason  why, 
if  a  single  incident,  a  single  sentiment,  a  single  thought,  is 
knit  to  the  central  purpose  by  no  traceable  affinity,  catches 
no  gleam  of  an  all-suffusing  light.  In  the  case  of  painting 
it  is  emphatically  true  that  there  is  no  departure  from  this 
universal  law  of  Art.  Take  the  most  unsophisticated  man 
you  can  find  ;  place  him  before  a  canvas  in  wliich  there  is  a 
multitude  of  figures,  each  exquisitely  painted,  but  engaged 
neither  in  any  one  pursuit  interesting  them  all,  nor  in  a 
variety  of  pursuits  coalescing  in  one  general  idea  (as  in  a 
fair)  ;  let  the  soldier  be  seen  in  this  corner,  burnishing  his 
arms  to  attack  no  foe,  the  merchant  in  that,  erecting  his 
booth  on  the  sea-shore  ;  let  there  be  a  specimen  from  every 
order  of  craftsmen,  each  separate  from  all  the  rest  and  each 
engaged  in  objectless  labor: — how  will  he  be  affected? 
He  will  declare  that  it  is  a  collection  of  pictures  within  a 
single  frame,  or  a  stupid  agglomeration  and  no  picture  at 
all.  The  necessity  of  a  single  aim  and  interest  is  most 
obvious  in  the  case  of  human  subjects;  but  the  law  holds 
good  also  in  landscape.  Now  it  is  just  an  attempt  to  carry 
out  this  law  of  nature  and  of  Art  which  has  resulted  in  the 


GLIMPSES    OF   RECENT   BRITISH    ART.         229 

academic  canon  of  generalization.  Your  central  idea,  it  is 
argued,  must  be  prominent,  must  arrest  and  rivet  attention  ; 
therefore,  in  painting  your  picture,  all  the  skill  you  can 
command  must,  in  human  subjects,  be  devoted  to  your  most 
important  figure,  and  in  landscape  to  your  most  prominent 
object.  The  argument  and  aim  were  right :  of  the  inference 
from  the  argument,  of  the  mode  of  attaining  the  aim,  I 
have  something  to  say  not  by  any  means  of  a  complimentary 
nature. 

Smith.  Well,  well :  —  this  last  remark  is  to  the  point. 
Grant  that  the  object  had  in  view  in  the  accepted  method 
of  generalization  is  a  correct  one,  will  that  avail  you  much 
in  defending  the  connoisseurs  ?  Have  not  errors  always,  or 
almost  always,  lain  in  methods  ?  Have  not  aims  generally 
been  right  ?  The  method  of  imparting  unity  of  idea  and 
interest  to  a  picture,  by  putting  in  a  false  background,  I 
assert  to  be  utterly  and  in  every  way  wrong,  —  unnatural, 
pernicious,  preposterous.  It  is  unnatural:  for  nature  has 
attained  her  object  in  a  way  perfectly  different,  a  way  which 
may  be  defined  in  one  word  as,  The  establishment  of  a 
relation  of  more  and  less,  among  incidents,  forms,  colors, 
in  their  own  excellence,  and  in  their  power  over  human 
sympathy.  Thus,  at  the  head  of  all  interest,  nature  places 
human  interest:  the  grandest  scenery,  of  precipice  and 
cloud  and  forest,  never  attracted  a  lover  as  the  smile  in  his 
loved  one's  eye.  In  other  provinces  of  creation,  her  most 
delicate  form  and  her  richest  color  are  relieved  by  forms 
and  colors  which  are  in  themselves  not  so  exquisite  or  so 
pure.  Her  finish  is  always  the  same ;  the  rose  leaf  is 
finished  as  the  rose  petal ;  but  the  pink  and  white  has  a 
natural,  an  inherent  supremacy  over  the  plain  green.  The 
distinction  between  nature's  plan  and  that  of  the  generalizer 
>g  exceeding  broad,  and  of  the  last  importance  in  Art ;  it 

FIRST   SERIES.  20 


230  GLIMPSES    OF   RECENT    BRITISH    ART. 

has  an  appearance  of  subtlety,  but  it  is  really  obvious  if  we 
give  it  fair  and  earnest  consideration.  The  generalizers 
precisely  evade  the  problem  proposed  and  worked  out  by 
nature  ;  and  by  so  doing,  spread  a  vail  between  themselves 
and  all  the  regions  of  the  Beautiful.  Nature  gives  all  her 
forms  and  colors  fair  play  ;  but  so  arranges  them  that  your 
eye,  while  gazing  impartially  over  her  prospect,  is  drawn 
by  a  sweet,  mild,  unconscious,  but  irresistible  compulsion, 
to  what  is  intrinsically  noblest  in  form  and  hue.  The 
academic  generaiizer  finds  it  extremely  difficult  to  discover 
the  truly  natural  subordination  of  thought  to  thought, 
emotion  to  emotion,  form  to  form,  color  to  color.  This 
demands  long  and  searching  observation  and  deep  reflec- 
tion. He  cannot  trust  to  his  lovers  for  an  interest  greater 
than  that  of  the  oak  under  which  they  whisper  ;  he  cannot 
trust  to  his  cataract  for  an  interest  greater  than  the  coj)se 
by  its  side.  So  he  turns  his  oak  into  broad  splashes  of 
green,  and  his  copse  into  broad  daubs  of  brown.  Thus  his 
method  is  unnatural.  It  is  pernicious :  for,  by  its  legalized 
blunder,  it  altogether  turns  away  the  artist  from  the  right 
path  of  natural  study.  It  prevents  him  from  catching 
sight  of  nature's  chief  Art-secret,  from  learning  her  cun- 
ning method  of  unity.  It  accustoms  him  to  all  manner  of 
degrading  and  enfeebling  slovenliness.  It  causes  him,  as  a 
true  bungler,  to  say  aloud,  this  I  want  you  to  observe,  this 
mountain  I  specially  painted,  this  rose  I  elaborately  han- 
dled :  whereas  nature  is  always  majestically  silent,  leading 
the  eye  to  the  mountain  by  the  soft  smile  of  its  own  blue, 
and  not  plucking  off  or  misshaping  her  leaves  that  the  eye 
may  rest  on  her  roses.  Thus  his  method  is  pernicious.  It 
is  preposterous,  for,  when  Art-culture  has  made  the  slightest 
progress,  it  certainly  defeats  itself.  At  whatever  prospect 
we  look,  whether  a  picture  or  no,  the  eye  can,  at  any  one 


GLIMPSES    OF    RECENT    BRITISH  ART.         231 

moment,  rest  only  on  one  point.  This  is  a  physiological 
law,  unvarying  and  indisputable.  In  looking  over  a  natural 
landscape,  I  am,  suppose,  attracted  by  a  group  of  human 
figures.  That  group  alone,  I,  for  the  moment,  see.  All 
other  things  are  in  a  certain  indistinct  light  around  it.  But 
I  am  not  physically  able  to  look  long  on  any  one  point.  I 
naturally  cast  my  eye  around.  What  then  happens  ?  The 
scene  becomes  definite.  I  discover  no  interference  with  the 
general  aspect  of  nature ;  clouds,  hills,  houses,  are  all  in 
their  proper  places  and  in  their  perfect  forms.  Looking 
upon  these,  my  eye  is  rested  ;  my  attention  gently  relaxes ; 
probably  without  any  conscious  emotion  whatever,  I  turn 
again  to  the  centralizing  group.  How  is  it  in  the  picture 
of  the  academic  generalizer  ?  While  the  eye  rests  exclu- 
sively on  the  one  portion  which  he  has  ventured  to  paint 
correctly,  all  may  be  so  far  well.  But  in  a  moment  it 
wanders  over  the  other  parts  of  the  picture.  Then  it  is 
startled,  disturbed,  pained,  by  meeting  an  impossibility,  a 
wild  agglomeration  of  forms  that  form  have  none,  and  hues 
unknown  to  nature.  It  is  deluded  of  the  repose  it  seeks. 
It  is  not  softly  conducted  from  the  pinnacle  to  the  plain. 
It  is  called,  instead,  to  contemplate  something  new  in  this 
world.  The  hills,  the  trees,  the  clouds,  are  no  longer  hills, 
trees,  or  clouds.  The  hills  have  permitted  themselves  to  be 
pounded  into  dust ;  the  trees  have  been  mashed  up  for  the 
sake  of  their  green  and  brown  ;  the  clouds  have  kindly  had 
themselves  condensed,  to  yield  a  liquid  medium  for  the 
a3sthetic  amalgam  ;  and  the  result  is  a  surprising  and  afflict- 
ing  phantasmagoria,  suggesting  only  some  hideous  and 
unprecedented  convulsion  in  all  the  elements. 

Thorn.  To  all  that  I  must  assent.  It  is  indeed  difficult 
to  exaggerate  the  pernicious  influence  of  this  theory  of  gen- 
eralization.     By  rightly  using  the  backgrounds  of  nature, 


232        GLIMPSES    OF    RECENT   BRITISH   ART. 

an  incalculable  accession  of  power  might  accrue  to  a  picture. 
The  pale  moon  setting  beyond  the  white  wave,  lends  only  a 
deeper  sadness  to  the  human  sorrow  which  Burns  breathes 
through  his  poem.  Let  us  really  see  a  few  sufferers  clinging 
in  despair  to  a  wreck  that  tosses  in  mid  ocean,  far  from  any 
shore  ;  and  the  sun  setting  behind  them  in  blood,  and  cast- 
ing a  burning  glare  over  the  cruel  sea,  will  but  enhance  our 
feeling  of  the  human  anguish.  Every  aspect,  phenomenon, 
and  mood  of  nature  takes  a  light  from  human  sympathy  ; 
"  ours  is  the  wedding  garment,  ours  the  shroud ; "  the  poet- 
painter  might  bring  unnumbered  voices  of  dewdrop  and 
sunbeam,  of  wild  wave  and  lightning  gleam,  to  blend  their 
silent  but  expressive  accents  with  the  main  thought  or  emo- 
tion of  his  picture. 

Smith.  Talking  of  generalization,  and  of  the  methods 
of  nature,  what  do  you  think  of  the  pre-Raphaelite  pic- 
tures? 

Thorn.  I  am  inclined  to  venture  on  the  paradoxical 
looking  answer,  that  there  are  no  pre-Raphaelite  pictures. 

Smith.  No  pre-Raphaelite  pictures  !  Either  argue  me 
out  of  my  eyesight,  or  explain. 

Thorn.  I  mean  that  pre-Raphaelitism  has  hitherto  done 
little  or  nothing.  I  recognize  the  princij)le ;  I  have  little 
faith  in  the  men. 

Smith.  O,  —  and  you  like  to  be  antithetic ;  —  well,  go 
on. 

Thorn.  I  see  many  things  in  pre-Raphaelitism,  but  this 
first  and  best  of  all :  a  new  earnestness  in  Art  taking  the 
right  direction.  I  shall  not  separate  the  direction  from  the 
earnestness,  because  I  like  to  believe  that  there  was  an  orig- 
inal and  causal  connection  between  the  two.  An  intense 
and  lofty  devotion  to  Art  arose  among  certain  students ;  it 
at  once  sent  them  to  nature :   in  nature  their  earnestness 


GLIMPSES    OF   RECENT   BRITISH    ART.         233 

found  its  fitting  and  fostering  aliment.  One  cannot  but 
experience  a  glow  of  sympathy  with  those  young  men  of 
"  stubborn  instincts,"  who  rebelled  against  the  stepmother 
academy,  and  rushed  to  the  bosom  of  the  mighty  mother 
herself.  Seldom  has  a  pursuit  led  to  no  great  results,  never 
has  it  failed  to  lay  a  giant  grasp  on  the  heart  of  man,  when 
followed  in  the  spirit  which  sent  Holman  Hunt  from  the 
luxury  and  adulation  of  a  London  season  to  take  up  his  sta- 
tion with  the  vultures  in  the  white  blaze  of  a  desert  sun, 
by  the  wan  glare  of  an  accursed  sea,  merely  in  order  that 
the  look  of  lorn  and  lonely  despair  with  which  it  lies  swoon- 
ing under  its  pestilential  atmosphere,  might  be  brought  to 
his  canvas.  Such  resolution  and  courage  I  shall  honor, 
though  as  yet  their  achievement  is  slight. 

Smith.  Very  good.  But  neither  earnestness  of  applica- 
tion nor  nobleness  of  devotion  ensure  exemption  from  radi- 
cal error ;  and  radical  error  at  the  commencement  will  turn 
into  mockery  all  hopes  of  subsequent  excellence.  Bear  this, 
if  you  please,  in  mind. 

Thorn.  Do  n't  be  alarmed ;  grant  me,  also,  a  few  min- 
utes all  to  myself,  even  though  I  seem  to  forget  the  funda- 
mental law  of  conversation,  —  that  there  be  no  engrossing. 
The  doctrine  of  pre-Raphaelitism  I  take  to  be,  that  what- 
ever is  painted  should  be  done  as  well  as  the  artist  can,  and 
that  nature  is  the  great  educator.  It  would  not  be  far 
wrong  to  say  that  pre-Raphaelitism  is  a  rebellion  against  the 
false  theory  of  generalization ;  that,  in  its  true  interpreta- 
tion, as  given,  for  instance,  in  the  works  of  Ruskin,  it  is  a 
proclamation  of  the  great  Art-law  of  unity.  Since  this  is  the 
chief  organic  law,  the  Magna  Charta,  of  Art,  there  is  no 
dishonor,  but  much  honor,  due  to  pre-Raphaelitism  in  thus 
denning  it.  In  speaking  of  the  new  school,  therefore,  I 
shall,  in  some  sense,  carry  out  what  we  have  already  said 
on  the  express  subject  of  generalization. 


234         GLIMPSES   OF    RECENT    BRITISH  ART. 

Not  contending  for  absolute  accuracy,  and  bearing 
always  in  mind  that  there  are  no  geometrical  lines,  no  mu- 
seum cases,  in  nature,  we  find  all  painters  divide  themselves 
into  three  broad  classes.  Of  course  they  are  mingled  and 
modified  in  all  sorts  of  ways,  but  never  mind  that.  The 
first  is  the  class  of  the  simple  narrators ;  the  second  that  of 
the  selectors;  the  third  that  of  the  inventors,  the  color- 
poets. 

Painters  belonging  to  the  first  of  these  orders  engage  in 
the  mere  express  delineation  of  whatever  is  characteristic  of 
the  general  life  of  their  generation ;  its  interiors,  its  costume, 
its  architecture.  Such  delineation  must  ever  continue  an  hon- 
orable and  important  occupation.  The  human  mind,  striv- 
ing with  an  earnestness  proportioned  to  its  general  nobler 
ness  and  capacity,  to  make  itself  at  home  in  all  centuries, 
must  prize  whatever  enables  it  to  effect,  with  vividness  and 
certainty,  this  domestication.  What  would  we  give  to  have 
such  representations  of  Greek  and  Roman,  or,  still  more 
precious,  of  Jewish  interiors,  at  the  time,  say,  of  the  spread 
of  Christianity,  distinct  and  accurate  as  the  Flemish  inte- 
riors of  Jan  Steen  and  Ostade?  All  portrait-painting 
might  be  claimed  for  this  class,  and  if  we  once  concede  the 
claim,  how  high  in  honor  and  estimation  does  it  rise !  If, 
however,  the  claim  were  exclusive,  it  could  not  on  any 
account  be  acknowledged  :  and  it  is  unnecessary  to  press  it, 
since  it  is  quite  certain  that  painters  simply  of  what  is  seen, 
in  its  bare  actual  realization,  will  always  be  popular  in  their 
own  generation,  and  esteemed  by  those  which  follow.  In 
the  popular  mind,  it  is  probable,  the  love  of  imitation  is  as 
powerful  as  any  of  the  instincts  gratified  in  Art,  and  to  this 
instinct  the  painters  in  question  are  the  declared  and  perpet- 
ual ministers.  Interest  in  the  past  is  also  undying,  and  on 
it  these  painters  may  depend  for  their  estimation  in  succeed- 


GLIMPSES   OF   RECENT   BRITISH   ART.         235 

ing  times.  But  it  is  undeniable  that  paintings  of  things  as 
they  are,  indiscriminatingly  taken,  if  belonging  to  Art  at 
all,  and  not  exclusively  to  artisanship,  occupy  the  lowest 
rank.  The  reason  of  this  is  distinct  and  conclusive ;  —  that 
the  power  they  demand  is  purely  mechanical,  that  of  hand 
and  eye,  and  that  they  afford  no  sphere  to  the  free  will,  to 
the  originating  or  altering  capacity  of  man. 

The  next  great  class  of  painters,  I  have  called  the  select- 
ors. Their  reliance  is  not  placed  upon  any  mere  power  of 
imitation,  although  power  of  imitation  is  indispensably 
necessary.  What  is  ordinary,  they  pass  by.  They  look  for 
the  rare,  the  exceptional,  the  excelling,  and  it  they  paint. 
I  speak  of  their  choice  of  whole  subjects,  not  of  their  mode 
of  securing  interest  in  individual  pictures.  They  select :  I 
do  not  say  they  generalize.  Academic  generalization  is 
always  wrong:  selection  rightly  performed  is  always  right. 
In  every  landscape  nature  subordinates  form  to  form,  work- 
ing every  form  perfectly  out :  but  nature  has  some  land- 
scapes more  beautiful  than  others.  It  is  true  that  there  is 
beauty  in  all.  But  this  is  a  dangerous  commonplace,  and  I 
rather  imagine  that  those  who  very  much  use  it  —  there  are 
exceptions,  of  course — have  no  very  delicate  sense  of  beauty 
in  any  case.  All  loveliness,  as  presented  to  the  human  mind, 
influences  by  degree,  and  displays  itself  by  contrast.  The 
dripping,  cheerless  clouds,  with  but  a  few  touches  of  livid 
blue  breaking  their  monotony  of  ashy  gray,  are  not  so  beau- 
tiful, and  were  not  intended  by  nature  to  be  thought  so  beau- 
tiful, as  those  same  clouds,  when  the  wind  has  gently  waved 
them  into  valleys  and  avenues,  and  the  bounteous  sun  has 
flung  abroad  upon  them  his  varied  light,  here  clustering 
into  roses,  there  gleaming  into  gold.  The  broad,  blunted 
features  of  the  clodhopper,  the  dim,  relaxed  features  of  the 
sluggard,  are  not  to  be  called  beautiful  beside  the  delicately 


23G         GLIMPSES    OF    RECENT    BRITISH  ART. 

cut  features,  the  mantling  color,  the  radiant  expression,  of 
such  a  face  as  one  may  see  once  in  a  year  or  a  lifetime. 
The  dreary,  drizzling,  colorless  day  sets  off  the  azure  and 
vermilion  of  its  evening.  The  heavy,  ill-proportioned  fea- 
tures, the  blunt  lines  and  torpid  expression,  of  a  thousand 
faces,  contribute  power  to  the  one  face  of  dazzling  beauty. 
And  in  the  case  of  beauty,  as  elsewhere,  nature  is  most 
bountiful  to  him  who  appreciates  her  gifts,  and  who,  by 
long,  resolute,  concentrated  study,  makes  them  his  own. 
Were  that  vague,  monotonous  loveliness  a  characteristic  of 
nature,  man  might  cast  on  the  world  a  heedless  and  wan- 
dering gaze.  Its  beauty  would  not  vanish ;  there  would  be 
nothing  to  unvail,  nothing  to  be  discovered.  But  now  the 
choicest  natural  beauties  are  momentary  glances,  evanes- 
cent as  glorious ;  nature's  smiles  have  to  be  watched  and 
waited  for;  the  eye  must  train  itself  to  see,  the  mind  to 
remember.  Doubt  it  not,  the  most  worthy  student  of 
nature,  he  who  shows  for  the  works  of  God  the  most  pure 
and  reasonable  reverence,  is  not  he  who  pays  to  the  beauty 
of  the  world  a  general,  indiscriminate  admiration,  but  he 
who  has  listened  well  to  nature's  voice,  who  has  learned  to 
distinguish  her  degrees  of  beauty,  who  has  been  handed 
from  the  lichen  to  the  daisy,  from  the  daisy  to  the  heather- 
bell,  from  the  heather-bell  to  the  lily,  from  the  lily  to  the 
rose,  until,  passing  from  loveliness  to  loveliness,  he  has  at 
last  attained  to  such  glimpses  of  the  purest,  highest  beauty, 
as  might  touch  the  eye  of  an  angel  with  rapturous  fire. 
Here,  of  course,  one  man  is  originally  gifted  more  exqui- 
sitely than  another:  and  he  who,  to  a  peculiar  sensibility  to 
beauty,  adds  a  rare  perseverance  in  its  culture,  is  the  man 
who  will  excel  as  a  painter  of  the  second  class.  He  is  the 
commissioned  of  his  fellow-men  to  be  a  spy  upon  nature :  to 
visit  her  in  her  solitudes;   to  steal  upon  her  at  eventide 


GLIMPSES   OF   RECENT   BRITISH   ART.         237 

when  she  is  shedding  her  faintest,  tenderest  purples  into  the 
mountain  valleys ;  to  mark  the  streaming  of  the  light  over 
unseen  mists  in  the  gorges  of  remote  hills ;  to  trace  the 
glittering  cloud  edges,  as  they  break  into  white  fire  in  the 
glance  of  the  lightning.  If  he  deals  with  human  subjects,  it  is 
his  to  note  the  manifestation  of  mighty  and  noble  passion ; 
to  arrest  forever  the  gleam  of  strange,  flitting  light  which 
glances  along  the  features,  when  a  sudden  throb  of  uncon- 
trollable emotion  strikes  the  heart.  He  goes,  too,  into  the 
paths  of  common  life,  looking  there  for  what  is  honorable, 
and  lovely,  and  of  good  report.  Whatever  he  deems  wor- 
thy of  choice,  he  paints.  But  he  is  not  original  save  in  the 
exercise  of  choice.  Once  give  him  his  subject,  and  he  paints 
it  with  literal  exactness. 

"Whole  schools  of  painting  belong  to  this  second  class,  — 
conspicuous  among  them,  the  Dutch  and  Flemish.  Ruys- 
dael  and  Cnyp  are  admirable  examples.  Mr.  Ruskin  speaks 
of  the  works  of  Ruysdael  as  furniture  pictures,  void  of  all 
the  higher  attributes  of  Art.  Neither  for  Cuyp  has  he  any 
great  affection.  "Were  it  not  that  profound  stupidity  has 
no  tendency  to  modesty,  this  fact  might  have  made  it 
impossible  for  critics  of  Mr.  Ruskin  to  tell  the  world  that 
all  he  cares  for  is  finish,  and  that  for  its  own  sake.  But 
this  by  the  way.  Be  the  pictures  of  Ruysdael  and  Cuyp 
what  they  may,  they  have  been  long,  widely,  and  pro- 
foundly popular;  and  while  adducing  them  as  examples 
of  their  class,  I  would  point  to  them  also  as  incontestably 
proving  our  second  class  of  painters  fitted  to  exercise  a 
very  powerful  influence  upon  the  human  mind.  It  seems 
impossible  for  an  unsophisticated  mind  not  to  be  arrested 
and  delighted  by  the  works  of  Ruysdael.  Yet  wherefore 
is  it  so  ?  Wherein  lies  their  charm  ?  If  you  wandered 
bodily  by  that  wood  beside  the  moor,  with  the  sparse  sun- 


238         GLIMPSES    OF   RECENT  BRITISH    ART. 

beams  struggling  here  and  there  through  its  foliage  —  if 
your  eye  rested  on  that  moorland,  bleak  and  brown,  as  it 
actually  presented  itself  to  the  eye  of  Ruysdael,  with  its 
bit  of  black  road,  and  its  one  pool  so  dead  and  murky  — 
would  you  not  hurry  on,  glancing  carelessly  at  the  whole 
scene,  uninduced  even  by  that  ruin,  seen  by  the  struggling 
sunlight  through  the  trees,  to  linger  for  a  moment  ?  ,Or 
if  you  stood  by  the  original  of  this  torrent,  in  another  pic- 
ture, with  one  or  two  uninteresting  cottages  on  the  hill 
side  above,  a  few  larches,  somewhat  tattered  looking,  on 
the  river  bank,  and  a  broken  stem  or  two  lying  across  the 
current,  would  you  think  the  scene,  though  perhaps  deserv- 
ing a  look,  worthy  of  being  long  and  needfully  observed  ? 
Surely  not.  Yet  here  you  are  enchained.  If  not  enrap- 
tured, you  at  least  experience  an  intense  pleasure.  Why, 
I  say,  is  this?  Is  it  not  because  a  touch  of  nature  makes 
the  whole  world  kin,  and  here  nature  is  rendered  in  all 
the  plainness  of  her  truth  ?  The  slightest  effort  of  imagi- 
nation bears  you  away  to  Ruysdael's  moorland,  spreading 
bleak  and  brown  under  those  sullen,  lowering  clouds.  His 
earth  has  the  very  look  of  nature's  surfaces  —  not  glazed, 
not  rolled  out  in  smooth  uniformity,  the  green  all  enamel, 
the  black  all  jet,  but  rough  and  fretted,  as  nature's  surface 
always  is,  with  its  millions  of  points,  singly  invisible,  of 
grass-blade,  reed,  and  heather.  His  clouds  have  the  mass 
and  depth,  the  light  and  shade,  of  cumulous  clouds,  and 
that  look  of  laggard  dreariness,  which  those  clouds  wear 
on  a  chill,  gloomy  day,  threatening  rain.  His  torrent, 
though  it  takes  from  the  dull  gray  of  the  sky  a  dissatisfy- 
ing bluish  dimness,  where  you  looked  for  bright,  leaping 
spray,  is  yet  true  under  its  own  sky,  and  you  feel  that  those 
larches  actually  grow  by  that  grumbling  northern  stream. 
Limited  as  Ruysdael's  range  may  be,  you  cannot  but  see 


GLIMPSES    OF   RECENT  BRITISH   ART.         239 

that  what  landscapes  he  selected  he  painted,  so  far  as  bare 
truth  was  concerned,  with  consummate  power.  If  you 
find,  as  I  do,  any  fascination  in  the  particular  scenes  he 
depicts,  he  will  appear  to  you  to  have  done  no  mean  work. 

For  Cuyp,  too,  let  me  speak  a  word.  He  must,  indeed, 
have  been,  in  some  sense,  a  dull  man.  If  nature  could  be 
consulted,  she  would  surely  declare  the  man  who  could  see 
and  love  but  one  of  her  aspects,  who  was  contented  to  paint 
during  his  whole  life  one  of  her  innumerable  phases,  a  vo- 
tary not  worth  having.  I  do  not  remember  any  picture  of 
Cuyp's,  and  pictures  by  Cuyp  are  to  be  found  in  every 
collection,  in  which  there  was  not  a  broad  yellow  light 
streaming  from  the  left.  Always,  I  think,  that  light 
touched,  with  a  faint  copper  color,  the  tops  of  stately 
cumulous  clouds,  piled  up,  their  domes  towards  sunset, 
in  the  repose  of  evening.  Yet  Cuyp's  monotony  has  not 
deprived  him  of  popularity,  nor  ought  it  entirely  to  have 
done  so.  There  was  a  power  in  his  dullness.  He  set  him- 
self to  paint  his  one  effect  with  unflagging  assiduity ;  and 
he  painted  it,  as  it  appears  to  me,  with  consummate  suc- 
cess. 

This  second  class  of  painters  is  the  widest  of  any.  It 
embraces  all  the  men  of  unquestionable  talent,  but  not  high 
genius.  I  hold  them  in  great  honor.  In  their  inability 
to  paint  more  than  one  effect  variously  modified,  I  find  an 
attestation  of  the  infinitude  by  which  the  works  of  God 
excel  the  works  of  man.  Their  endowment  is  certainly 
beyond  the  common;  their  perseverance  is  indomitable; 
yet  they  spend  their  whole  lives  in  attempting  to  trace 
and  imitate  one  touch  of  the  Divine  finger !  There  are 
of  course  many  living  painters  who  belong  to  this  class. 
Cooper,  Lee,  Cooke,  and  others  without  end,  able,  meri- 
torious artists,  are  men  possessing,  so  to  speak,  one  piece 


240  GLIMPSES    OF   RECENT   BRITISH   ART. 

of  knowledge.  You  can  tell  precisely  what  each  sees  in 
nature.  Lee  paints  everything  as  if  it  had  been  "  washed, 
just  washed,  in  a  shower."  He  takes  his  palette  to  the 
fields  in  the  intervals  of  the  showers  that  drift  before  the 
west  winds  of  June.  Green,  gray,  blue,  —  these  are  his 
colors.  Cooper  is  as  fond  of  yellow  sunlight  as  Cuyp, 
.whom,  indeed,  he  seems  to  have  closely  studied.  His  cows 
are  of  the  color  of  tortoise-shell,  and  you  may  be  sure  of 
the  dreamy  yellow  of  afternoon  on  his  skies  and  streams. 
Cooke  keeps  to  nearly  the  same  color  as  Cooper,  with  the 
modification  enforced  by  the  nature  of  his  marine  views. 
A  pale  yellow  illumination  is  about  all  his  skies  and  clouds, 
—  now  and  then,  perhaps,  fading  into  gray. 

Smith.  Allow  me  to  interrupt  you  for  a  moment.  I 
once  happened  to  look  at  a  landscape  in  this  Academy,  by 
Which  I  was  not  a  little  puzzled.  The  sky,  the  clouds,  the 
trees,  were  certainly  the  painting  of  Lee.  But  where  had 
Lee  got  those  yellow  lights,  those  broad  pale  gleams, 
changing  the  tone  of  the  whole  picture?  The  cattle,  on 
the  other  hand,  the  yellow  tones  here  and  there,  were 
Cooper's,  but  how  had  Cooper  stolen  a  march  upon  Lee, 
whence  had  he  got  the  west  wind  shower  to  wash  up  his 
picture  ?  A  glance  at  the  catalogue  resolved  the  mystery. 
The  landscape  was  Lee's :  the  cattle  were  Cooper's. 

Thorn.  Thank  you.  The  case  is  precisely  in  point.  I 
have  only  to  add,  as  to  this  class  of  painters,  that  all  which 
has  been  said  of  them  as  landscapists  applies  to  them,  with 
obvious  modification,  as  painters  of  life.  Caravaggio's  gam- 
blers answer  precisely  to  Cuyp's  evenings  and  Cooper's 
cows. 

There  is  a  third  class  of  painters,  the  inventors,  the 
poets.  It  is  an  inalienable  attribute  of  man  that  he  can 
modify,  recombine,  adorn  nature.    He  casts  a  gleam  from 


GLIMPSES    OF   RECEKT   BRITISH   ART.         241 

his  crown  as  king  of  the  world.  To  recur  to  Coleridge's 
matchless  thought,  he  breathes  over  earth  the  music  of  his 
bridals,  and  compels  its  melodies  to  take  a  tone  from  his 
funeral  wails.  Raphael's  Madonna  did  not  altogether  grow 
amid  the  Italian  mountains.  The  most  skilful  daguer- 
reotypist  of  our  nineteenth  century  could  not  bring  a 
Madonna  like  Raphael's  from  any  valley  of  the  Appenines 
or  any  plain  of  Italy.  The  angelic  mildness  of  the  eye, 
looking  in  satisfied,  unchanging  gaze  of  love  and  adoration 
on  the  face  of  that  Child  in  her  arms,  —  the  saintliness  and 
hallowed  purity  of  all  around  the  still  group,  —  the  sweet 
and  tender  loveliness  of  the  maid-mother's  face, — these  were 
Raphael's  own.  And  in  the  case  of  every  painter  among 
the  mightiest,  there  is  this  something  added,  which  gives 
its  last  glory  to  the  picture.  To  expatiate  upon  this  high- 
est class  of  artists  is  needless,  since  its  existence  will  be 
disputed  in  no  criticism  worth  opposition,  and  its  works 
cannot  be  easily  mistaken. 

Smith.  Have  you  forgotten  that  this  is  all  an  introduc- 
tion to  your  answer  to  my  question  about  pre-Raphaelitism  ? 
May  I  ask  whether  the  length  of  the  reply  is  to  be  inferred 
from  its  introductory  exercitation  ? 

Thorn.  Do  n't  be  impatient.  I  have  not  lost  my  reckon- 
ing. What  I  have  been  saying  is  not  exclusively,  or  even 
strictly,  an  introduction;  and  so  far  as  it  is,  be  so  good 
as  to  compare  it  to  a  winding  avenue,  that  opens  upon 
a  country  mansion.  You  take  some  time  to  thread  the 
approach;  but  once  you  reach  its  end,  you  embrace  the 
house  in  one  brief  glance.     Now  for  that  glance. 

Apply  the  grand  pre-Raphaelite  principle,  that  whatever 
is  painted  should  be  painted  as  well  as  the  painter  can,  in 
each  of  the  provinces  of  Art  that  we  have  been  surveying. 
Since  I  must  take  it  for  granted  that  the  academic  theory 

FIRST   SERIES.         21 


242         GLIMPSES    OF  RECENT   BRITISH    ART. 

of  generalization  has  been  demolished,  it  is  unnecessary  to 
inquire  whether  this  is  the  only  true  principle  for  thq 
guidance  of  painters  of  the  first  two  classes.  The  question 
is  of  the  third  class.  Does  not  pre-Raphaelitism  of  necessity- 
cabin,  crib,  confine  the  greatest  minds?  Rightly  under- 
stood, it  does  not  so,  by  any  means.  Perhaps,  in  its  most 
important  aspect,  it  is  an  educational  principle;  and  as 
such,  its  main  value  lies  in  destroying  erroneous  and  per- 
nicious principles  of  Art-education.  There  has  been  from 
time  immemorial,  in  the  schools  of  Art,  a  fatal  confusion 
between  two  kinds  or  divisions  of  training  ;  that  which  is 
mechanical  and  reducible  to  rules,  and  that  which  relates 
to  things  not  mechanical,  and  which  cannot  be  done  by 
rule.  There  is  a  certain  amount  of  intellectual  culture,  a 
certain  attainment  in  intellectual  excellence,  which  one 
generation  can  transmit  to  another  with  precisely  the  same 
ease  and  certainty  as  a  method  of  ploughing  or  an  improved 
system  of  rotation  in  crops.  But  there  is  a  province  in 
human  affairs,  in  which  teaching,  whatever  it  may  do,  can 
never  get  the  length  of  prescribing  rules;  in  which  the 
influence  of  education  must  be  indirect  and  informal.  This 
province  is  that  of  the  poetic,  the  creative  imagination, 
answering  to  that  of  the  inventive  intellect.  It  is  specially 
the  province  of  Art  as  distinguished  from  any  sort  of 
artisanship.  As  well  appoint  rules  for  invention  in  manu- 
factures, as  draw  up  canons  by  which  great  pictures  may 
be  produced.  In  other  provinces  of  exertion  this  great 
principle  is  recognized.  The  fallacy  which  from  time  im- 
memorial has  covered  our  exhibition  walls  with  Deluges, 
and  Dears,  and  Orpheuses,  which  has  kept  ordinary  men, 
age  after  age,  attempting  to  puff*  themselves  into  genius, 
has  never  drawn  breath  in  healthier  atmospheres,  where 
no  dilettantism  turned  aside  the  searching  but  salubrious 


GLIMPSES    OF   RECENT    BRITISH   ART.         243 

influence  of  the  popular  gale.  The  human  mind  has  always, 
in  the  might  of  its  unsophisticated  instincts,  spurned  the 
idea  of  a  poem  written  by  rule.  Fancy  a  lyric  constructed 
upon  scientific  principles !  Fancy  a  lark  instructed  out  of 
"Whewell  how  to  flap  his  wings,  or  a  nightingale  conning 
the  theory  of  music !  Might  not  an  epic  be  put  together 
in  an  age  when  mechanical  invention  has  got  so  far  ?  "  For 
your  tempest,  take  Eurus,  Zephyr,  Auster,  and  Boreas,  and 
cast  them  together  in  one  verse;  add  to  them,  of  rain, 
lightning,  and  thunder  (the  loudest  you  can),  quantum 
sufficit.  Mix  your  clouds  and  billows  well  together  till 
they  foam,  and  thicken  your  description  here  and  there 
with  a  quicksand.  Brew  your  tempest  well  in  your  head, 
before  you  set  it  a  blowing.  For  a  battle,  pick  a  large 
quantity  of  images  and  descriptions  from  Homer's  Iliad, 
with  a  spice  or  two  of  Yirgil,  and  if  there  remain  any 
overplus,  you  may  lay  them  by  for  a  skirmish.  Season  it 
well  with  similes,  and  it  will  make  an  excellent  battle." 
You  remember  Swift's  exquisite  humor.  And  will  not 
all  men  laugh  with  him  at  the  absurdity  involved  in  this 
"Recipe  for  an  Epic?"  But  Art  has  ever  yet  been  the 
possession  of  comparatively  a  few;  and  in  painting,  it  is 
quite  possible,  by  adherence  to  certain  rules,  of  composition 
in  form,  and  harmony  in  color,  to  produce  pictures  pleasing 
the  eye  and  satisfying  a  mediocre  taste.  Hence  your  regu- 
lar crop  of  mock  sublimities  from  year  to  year :  hence  the 
oversight  of  that  axiom  of  all  Art-criticism  and  Art-educa- 
tion, that  the  distinguishing  character  and  very  essence  of 
genius  lies  in  the  impossibility  of  attaining  its  results  by 
rule,  in  the  vanity  of  all  attempts  to  steal  its  celestial  fire 
and  set  it  to  burn  in  the  cast-iron  grates  of  mediocrity. 
The  word,  "conventionality,"  is  very  much  in  use  at 
present,  and  I  have  no  doubt  that  very  little  meaning  is 


244         GLIMPSES    OF    RECENT   BRITISH  ART. 

in  many  cases  attached  to  it:  but  I  consider  all  con- 
ventionality, so  far  as  it  is  evil,  to  consist  simply  in  the 
accumulation  of  methods  by  which  genius  may  be  mim- 
icked. Now  true  pre-Raphaelitism — the  pre-Raphaelitism  of 
Ruskin  —  appeals  from  the  hoary  conventionalism  of  Art- 
teaching  to  nature,  declares  that  rules  can  never  produce 
great  pictures,  and  maintains  that  the  one  infallible  method 
of  securing  sound  work  —  plain,  valuable  artisanship  if  the 
worker  is  but  an  artisan,  the  invaluable  fruits  of  genius  if 
he  is  a  born  artist  —  is  to  hold  to  nature,  and  paint  what 
is  seen.  Is  not  this  a  principle,  "which  to  look  at  is  to 
love?" 

Smith.  True,  true;  but  do  you  not  at  least  imply  an 
oversight  of  part  of  the  truth?  Can  you  dissociate  past 
effort  from  present  study?  Will  you  assert  that  I  can 
derive  no  benefit  from  knowing  how  my  fellow-men  of  past 
generations  looked  on  the  face  of  nature  ?  Will  you  pro- 
nounce present  knowledge  of  natural  phenomena,  present 
discovery  of  more  excellent  Art-methods,  of  the  highest 
importance,  yet  tacitly  affirm  that  neither  fact  nor  principle 
can  be  so  assuredly  ascertained,  as  to  be  transmitted  to 
posterity?  Nature,  with  all  her  demand  for  labor,  has  a 
grand  motherly  habit  of  thrift,  by  which  she  encourages, 
rewards,  dignifies  toil.  Newton  sets  his  foot  easily,  for  a 
second  ascent,  upon  the  principle,  to  discover  which  was 
a  long  and  painful  task  for  Archimedes.  Watt  does  not 
re-invent  steam  before  he  invents  the  steam  engine.  Can 
you  wholly  exclude  this  law  from  the  province  of  Art? 

Thorn.  By  no  means ;  and  allow  me  to  say  that  I  think 
I  have  already  said  enough  to  indicate  how  far  and  in  what 
sense  it  is  either  admitted  or  excluded.  No  sort  of  Art- 
education,  pre-Raphaelite  or  other,  can  confer  the  creative 
capacity  of  genius :  Archimedes  did  not  tell  Newton  horn 


GLIMPSES    OF   RECENT   BRITISH    ART.  245 

lie  had  discovered ;  Milton,  schoolmaster  as  he  was,  could 
teach  no  pupil  to  write  a  Paradise  Lost.  But  this  pre- 
vents not  that  a  thousand  ordinary  mathematicians,  between 
Archimedes  and  Newton,  apply  to  useful  purposes  the 
discoveries  of  the  former.  Now  it  is  impossible  wholly  to 
dissever  Art  from  mere  workmanship ;  the  pure  spirit  must 
dwell  in  a  temple  of  clay :  and  the  greatest  genius,  if  he  had 
to  paint  a  house  or  a  man,  would  act  absurdly  by  attempt- 
ing to  re-invent  all  his  processes  and  rules.  Only,  if  his 
province  is  that  of  real  Art,  he  can  breathe  the  new  life 
into  the  old  form,  and  to  do  that  no  rules  will  avail  him. 

Smith.  Well:  but  will  study  of  nature  enable  him  to 
do  this  either  ? 

Thorn.  You  think  that  a  clincher.  I  answer  without 
any  hesitation,  No.  By  learning  accurately  to  paint  all 
the  earth  and  all  the  sky,  a  man  would  learn  to  produce 
painted  landscapes  capable  of  affording  great  pleasure  and 
information  to  his  fellow-men ;  but  he  would  never  neces- 
sarily learn  to  produce  a  work  of  Art.  I  might  find  it 
difficult  to  establish  this  proposition,  but  for  the  stores  of 
instance  afforded  me  by  the  history  of  painting.  With 
these  I  can  have  no  difficulty.  The  Dutch  painters  have 
shown  the  world  what  workmanship  can  attain  without 
genius.  The  daguerreotype  has  shown  it  still  better. 
These  give  nature,  but  not  the  poetry  of  nature.  Turner's 
•Temple  of  Minerva  Sunias  gives  nature  and  the  poetry  of 
nature  also ;  it  is  a  work  of  Art.  By  study  of  the  works 
of  bygone  artists,  encouragement,  suggestion,  awakening, 
may  be  found  for  genius;  therefore  such  study  is  good: 
only  it  must  be  remembered  that  nature  is  the  great 
check  upon  human  influence,  that  she  furnishes  the  test 
of  accepted  truth,  and  is  the  source  of  every  truth  that 
is  new. 

21* 


24G        GLIMPSES    OF    RECENT   BRITISH   ART. 

Smith.  Now  what  would  you  say  if  I  pronounced  you 
at  your  conclusion  a  little  further  off  than  you  were  at  your 
commencement  ?  You  seem  to  have  left  very  little  of  dis- 
tinctive character  to  your  pre-Raphaelitism. 

Thorn.  Why,  if  you  so  pronounced,  I  should  simply  say 
you  are  not  so  shrewd  a  man  as  I  take  you  for.  You  are 
very  well  aware  that  the  two  things  invariably  and  essen- 
tially opposed  to  truth  are  novelty  and  paradox.  Ruskin 
and  the  pre-Raphaelites  cannot  be  accused  of  having  pro- 
pounded any  new-fangled,  unheard  of  idea.  They  proclaim 
an  ancient  and  substantial  truth  ;  and  it  is  as  representing 
and  promoting  a  reaction  towards  this  truth,  that  they  can 
claim  a  position  of  their  own.  A  conventionalism,  piled 
fold  after  fold  for  centuries,  had  stiffened  and  benumbed  the 
limbs  of  Art.  This  fact  must  be  borne  in  mind  in  contem- 
plating the  whole  phenomenon  ofpre-Raphaelitism.  Had 
not  Mr.  Ruskin  opened  the  eyes  of  all  who  will  see  to  its 
certainty,  the  fact  of  established  conventionalism  might' 
take  long  to  prove.  But  it  is  now  preposterous  to  call  it  in 
question.  Surely,  surely,  in  all  reason  and  honesty,  it  must 
be  admitted  that  the  old  traditions  and  admirations  retarded 
Art,  lowered  and  deadened  the  general  sense  of  artistic 
truth,  produced  pictures  without  number  whose  greatness 
was  a  sham,  and  evoked  applause  without  end  which  was 
an  hypocrisy.  The  Claudes,  the  Salvators,  the  Poussins  sat 
on  their  hero-thrones,  their  sceptres,  whether  leaden  or 
golden,  stretched  out  to  protect  placid  absurdities,  with 
their  scholars,  surrounded  by  all  their  ghastly  paraphernalia 
of  extinct  classicism,  manufacturing  "  great "  pictures  at 
their  feet.  Only  conceive  the  power  of  that  moral  and 
intellectual  narcotic,  through  which  men  came  not  only  to 
tolerate  but  to  praise  those  landscapes,  for  instance,  which 
the  said  masters  called    after    Scripture    subjects?    The 


GLIMPSES    OF    RECENT    BRITISH  ART.         247 

picture  was  called  The  Marriage  of  Isaac  and  Rebecca, 
The  Sacrifice  of  Isaac,  The  Departure  of  the  Queen  of 
jSheba  to  visit  Solomon,  or  by  some  such  name.  The 
painter  put  in  his  modern  villas,  harbors,  and  trees,  and 
when  he  had  finished,  you  had  to  search  the  picture  over 
and  over,  until  you  lighted  on  a  miserable  figure  or  two  in 
a  corner,  in  some  trivial  or  despicable  attitude,  representing 
the  artist's  conception  of  some  one  or  other  of  the  most 
solemn  and  interesting  incidents  in  human  story.  I  have 
seen  a  picture  by  Salvator  Rosa  called  Paul  preaching  in 
the  'Wilderness.  The  apostle  has  precisely  the  look  of  a 
vulgar,  crusty,  petulant  monk,  and  he  points  to  a  couple  of 
crossed  sticks  in  his  hand,  representing  a  rude  cross.  The 
scene  is  a  rocky  gorge  after  the  manner  of  Salvator,  and 
such  as  might  have  existed  in  the  country  of  the  Galatians. 
Imagine  Paul  addressing  those  same  Galatians  with  a  cross 
in  his  hand  by  way  of  illustrating  his  doctrine  !  Read  his 
letter  to  those  mountaineers,  and  inquire  into  the  truth, 
say  rather  the  complicated,  outrageous  falsehood,  of  Salva- 
tor's  picture.  Now  I  do  not  of  course  blame  the  painters 
for  such  things  as  these.  The  civilization  of  their  time 
admitted  and  encouraged  such  falsities.  Nor  do  I  forget 
that  there  are  abstract  qualities  of  hue  and  line.  But  was 
there  not  need  for  a  reaction,  when  men,  on  the  intellectual 
level  of  the  nineteenth  century,  were  told  to  take  such  men 
as  infallible  models,  and  when  imitations  of  their  manner 
were  set  apart  in  a  specially  great  school  ?  The  Art  of 
Great  Britain  is  passing  through  a  transition  period.  It 
experienced  of  old,  more  or  less,  the  paralyzing  effect  of  an 
excessive  conventionalism.  The  truth  and  beauty  which 
former  masters  had  perceived  and  exhibited  was  not  esti- 
mated in  itself  or  valued  for  its  own  sake.  Instead  of  this, 
the  reverence  for  authority,  for  men,  for  names,  entered  in. 


248         GLIMPSES    OF   RECENT    BRITISH  ART. 

Painting  surrendered  its  freedom  and  its  originality  in  a 
species  of  hero-worship.  But  Ruskin  and  the  pre-Raphaelites 
sent  artists  back  to  the  fountains  of  nature.  They  pro- 
claimed again  that  all  truly  great,  all  nobly  ideal  Art  must 
arise  out  of  the  real ;  that  over  the  gaunt  skeleton  of 
material  fact  must  the  elastic  muscle,  the  trembling  nerve, 
the  vital  blood,  the  mantling  bloom,  of  artistic  creation  lie. 
Re-invigorated  by  converse  with  nature,  Art  may  again 
turn  to  the  old  masters ;  not  now  to  worship,  but  to 
examine,  to  see,  to  know,  to  admire,  to  learn.  It  will 
watch  the  first  efforts  of  Cimabue,  the  dawning  glory  of 
Giotto,  the  softened  splendor,  surely  a  noonday  splendor, 
of  Raphael.  It  will  mark  Claude  as  he  "  sets  the  sun  in 
heaven,"  and  follow  to  the  fields  the  hardy  workers  of 
Holland.  It  will  watch  the  hand  of  every  great  and  honest 
man  who  ever  painted. 

It  can  hardly  be  conceived  that  the  simultaneous  appear- 
ance of  Ruskinism?pre-Raphaelitism,  and  photography  is  not 
destined  to  yield  some  great  result.  That  simultaneousness 
may  reverently  be  held  to  have  been  providential.  All 
three  send  Art  in  the  same  direction,  —  to  nature.  Photo- 
graphy is  gradually  becoming  perfect  in  the  rendering,  not 
only  of  faces,  trees,  and  buildings,  but  of  the  great  forms  of 
landscape.  The  eye  finds  so  much  delight  in  color,  that  it 
is  not  in  the  least  surprising  that  the  brown  and  white  of 
large  photographs  should  not  be  generally  admired  or  liked, 
or  that  they  should  be  unable  at  first  to  enter  the  lists  of 
popularity  against  pictures.  But  as  the  eye  accustoms 
itself  to  dispense  with  the  charm  of  color,  and  learns  to 
dwell  on  the  abstract  forms  revealed  by  the  photographer, 
the  beholder  experiences  a  profound  delight.  I  have  been 
myself  positively  surprised  at  the  increasing  sense  of  beauty, 
grandeur,  majesty,  with  which  I  have  looked  upon  Alpine 


GLIMPSES    OF   RECENT   BRITISH   ART.         249 

photographs.  The  silent,  stable  masses,  resting  in  their 
colossal  strength  on  the  foundations  of  the  world,  —  the 
faint,  diffused  shade,  drawing  me  on  into  the  depths  of 
solemn  valleys,  —  the  rich  variety  of  the  pine  foliage  on  the 
lower  reaches  of  the  hills ;  —  these  have  come  by  degrees 
to  afford  me  an  exquisite  pleasure.  This  is  nature  in  her 
own  majesty.  She  is  disrobed  of  the  mantle  of  Art  ;  and 
methinks  it  is  hardly  flattering  to  one's  human  pride  to 
find  how  well  the  human  drapery  can  be  dispensed  with. 
It  may  be  that  the  universal  presence,  in  prints  and  pictures, 
of  some  added  element — whether  the  imperfection  of 
incompetency,  the  mistake  of  conventionalism,  or,  if  you 
will,  the  poetry  of  genius  —  gives  a  special  zest  to  repre- 
sentations in  which  this  is  wanting.  It  may  even  be  that 
the  literal  forms  of  nature  have  in  themselves  an  august 
beauty  which  man  has  as  yet,  generally  speaking,  failed  not 
only  to  improve  but  to  equal.  But  however  it  is,  I  confess 
I  find  more  nourishment  for  eye  and  soul,  in  a  few  good 
photographs  of  Swiss  scenery,  than  in  a  similar  number  of 
prints  or  pictures.  Depend  upon  it,  as  the  public  eye 
becomes,  by  means  of  pre-Raphaelite  paintings,  of  photo- 
graphic views,  and,  let  me  add,  of  modern  facilities  in 
beholding  the  hills  and  rivers  of  nature,  accustomed  to  fact, 
the  craving  for  more  truth  in  the  works  of  artists  will 
become  too  general  and  too  intense  to  be  resisted.  The 
old  ideal  of  landscape  will  be  unable  to  maintain  itself.  It 
must  either  pass  away  or  learn  to  embody  all  the  fresh 
knowledge  of  the  time.  That  there  is  a  possibility  of  this 
being  done,  even  of  a  grandeur  being  added  to  all  that 
nature  can  display,  I  have  no  doubt  whatever.  A  future  of 
unexampled  glory  may  await  Art. 

Smith.    Let  me  add  a  word  as  to  the  dangers  to  which 
pre-Raphaelitism  is  peculiarly  exposed.     Of  the  mistake  of 


25J         GLIMPSES    OF    RECENT   BRITISH   ART. 

offering  or  accepting  correct  studies  as  pictures,  and  of  that 
of  drawing  not  only  feature  but  expression  from  models,  I 
cannot  speak.  These  have  simply  to  be  mentioned,  as 
indefensible  and  fatal.  But  there  is  a  subtler  and  more, 
comprehensive  error  than  these,  of  which  pre-Raphaelites 
would  do  well  to  beware.  I  mean  the  error  of  dishonor- 
ing the  creative  imagination,  confounding  it  with  a  mere 
combination  of  accuracy  of  memory  and  power  of  eye  and 
hand.  Memory  and  imagination  are  essentially  distinct. 
The  one  is  indeed  the  handmaid  of  the  other,  the  service- 
able, the  indispensable  handmaid  ;  but  the  handmaid  cannot 
change  places  with  the  mistress..  Memory  brings  the 
materials  and  lays  them  out ;  it  may  be  in  systematic 
arrangement,  it  may  be  in  chaotic  disorder ;  imagination 
looks  upon  them,  and  they  are  grouped  into  unity  or  spring 
to  life.  Mere  mechanical  order  becomes  living  harmony, 
and  disorder  subsides  into  a  world.  All  those  lights  of 
natural  beauty,  all  those  truths  of  symmetry  and  form, 
which  the  Greek  imagination  embodied  in  Aphrodite,  could 
be  catalogued  and  counted  over  by  memory.  The  bend  of 
the  sea-wave,  the  white  foam,  mantling,  in  the  sunlight,  into 
rose-bloom,  the  laughing  light  that  danced  in  a  thousand 
smiles  over  the  broad  front  of  ocean,  might  all  have  been 
chronicled  and  remembered,  yet  remained  forever  dead  and 
apart.  But  imagination  comes  upon  the  scene.  Lo  !  the 
bending  wave  is  a  moving  arm  ;  the  snow  of  the  foam,  and 
the  tints  of  its  rainbows  blend  in  a  living  cheek;  the  many- 
twinkling  laughter  of  the  sea  is  gathered  into  the  witching 
eye  of  Aphrodite.  Take  another  example.  A  most  power- 
ful and  touching  description  could  be  drawn  out  in  detail 
of -the  horrors  of  popular  commotion,  of  anarchic  revolution. 
The  poverty  occasioned  by  the  obstruction  of  steady 
industry  might  be  depicted ;  the  number  of  the  slain  might 


GLIMPSES    OF   RECENT   BRITISH   ART.      251 

be  specified,  and  the  miserable  manner  of  their  death 
described ;  the  destruction  of  ancient  dynasties,  the  confla- 
gration of  opulent  cities,  the  blackening  of  fertile  provinces, 
might  be  dwelt  on  in  all  the  ghastliness  of  their  coloring 
and  all  the  minuteness  of  their  detail.  In  all  this,  memory 
alone  might  have  been  at  work.  A  totally  different  faculty 
is  in  operation  when  Coleridge  annihilates,  by  one  stroke  of 
consummate  perfection,  all  descriptions  of  popular  madness, 
in  these  brief  words :  — 

"  Lo !  the  giant  Frenzy, 
Uprooting  empires  with  his  whirlwind  arm, 
Mocketh  high  heaven." 

To  say  how,  precisely,  this  faculty  works  is  what  no  critic 
ought  to  attempt,  and  what  he  who  possesses  it  most  might 
be  of  all  least  able  to  do.  But  as  to  its  radical  differ- 
ence from  memory,  no  question  can  be  entertained.  Pre- 
Raphaelitism,  rightly  understood,  does  not  endanger  the 
distinction.  By  recognizing  it  in  all  its  force,  Mr.  Ruskin 
has  both  exhibited  to  those  willing  or  able  —  which  you 
like  —  to  follow  him,  the  completeness  and  symmetry  of 
his  system,  and  set  whole  nests  of  hornet-critics,  whose 
characteristic  is  that  they  can  fasten  upon  but  one  point  at 
once,  buzzing  about  his  ears.  He  hailed  pre-Raphaelitism  as 
mighty,  because  it  companied  with  truth ;  he  gazed  won- 
dering upon  the  imaginative  "  dream,"  as  it  bodied  itself  out 
under  the  pencil  of  Turner.  "  Why,"  buzzed  the  hornets, 
"  this  man,  this  Turner,  is  among  the  mists  on  the  moun- 
tain's brow ;  these  pre-Raphaelites  have  stuck  their  palettes 
among  the  weeds  at  its  foot,  and  paint  as  with  microscopes : 
how  can  any  one  pretend  to  admire  and  approve  of  both  ?  " 
Ruskin,  with  the  eye  of  true  critical  genius,  embraced  the 
whole  mountain  from  brow  to  base.     Turner  he  saw  far 


252         GLIMPSES    OF    RECENT   BRITISH  ART. 

up  among  the  mists,  which  turned  to  glory  round  him: 
between  his  station  and  that  of  the  pre-Raphaelites  lay 
many  a  wreath  of  cloud,  hiding  the  pathway  up:  but 
on  the  same  pathway  were  both,  —  the  pathway  of  lov- 
ing submission  to  nature,  of  earnest  devotion  to  truth. 
Pre-Raphaelitism  is  the  surest  path  —  though,  recollect, 
no  path  can  be  guaranteed — to  the  capacities  and  achieve- 
ments of  creative  genius;  and  whatever  it  positively  en- 
sures, it  has  the  grand  negative  advantage  of  producing 
no  utterly  abortive  work.  When,  therefore,  I  look  to 
the  works  of  Ruskin  and  consider  his  estimate  of  Turner, 
I  fear  no  misconception  of  pre-Raphaelitism.  But  it  is 
not  equally  so,  when  I  look  at  the  works  of  Millais  and 
recollect  Ruskin's  estimate  of  them.  I  should  be  sorry 
to  say  anything  implying  disrespect  for  the  powers  of 
Mr.  Millais.  However  much  certain  of  his  works  may  fall 
short  or  offend,  the  man  who  has  looked  upon  nature  with 
his  earnestness  is  deserving  of  honor.  No  man  but  one  very 
peculiarly  gifted  could  have  given  so  mighty  a  realization 
of  the  deep,  dark  amethyst  of  the  autumn  hill,  as  Millais  has 
given  in  his  Autumn  Leaves.  But  with  all  his  realizing 
power,  I  cannot  believe  that  this  artist  has  any  real  imagi- 
native force.  You  may  test  the  fact  simply  but  infallibly. 
Attempt  to  take  his  pictures  to  pieces.  Endeavor  to  trace 
the  process  of  their  composition.  To  do  so  in  the  case  of 
imaginative  genius  may  be  pronounced  impossible.  The 
touch  there  is  invisible  as  the  conception  was  instantane- 
ous. The  mode  of  working  is  subtle  as  life.  Coleridge 
could  not  have  told  you  how  that  giant  sprung  to  life  in 
his  soul.  A  mechanical  mind,  considering  characteristics 
and  adopting  traits  for  a  century,  could  not  have  produced 
the  impersonation.  But  whenever  Millais  attempts  imagi- 
native work,  he  lets  his  hand  be  seen.     You  know  how 


GLIMPSES    OF   RECENT    BRITISH   ART.         253 

idea  after  idea  struck  him,  and  was  taken  up,  and  fitted 
to  its  place,  and  put  in.  In  his  large  picture,  Peace  Con- 
cluded, for  instance,  who  cannot  perceive  that  triviality 
after  triviality,  about  the  cock,  the  bear,  the  turkey,  the 
lion,  suggested  itself  to  his  mind,  and  was  mechanically 
suited  to  his  purpose?  You  can  put  the  colons  and  full 
stops  into  the  long-winded  pointless  tale.  Mr.  Ruskin  may 
continue  to  admire  Millais,  but  he  will  never  persuade  more 
than  a  coterie  that  his  favorite  possesses  a  fine  sympathy  or 
a  high  imagination.  It  would  be  a  dreary  consummation 
if  pre-Raphaelitism,  aftre  toiling  long  in  the  mines  of  truth, 
laid  its  stores,  not  at  the  foot  of  some  wizard  imagination, 
capable  of  evoking  perfections  of  loveliness  undreamed  of 
in  the  world,  but  before  mere  memory,  gigantic  indeed  in 
its  powers,  but  mechanical  and  manufacturing  after  all. 

Thorn.  Whether  Millais  has  true  imagination  or  no,  he 
has  produced  one  great  picture.  The  Rescue  appears  to 
me  by  far  his  finest  painting  as  yet,  —  there  are  one  or  two 
of  his,  by  the  way,  that  I  have  not  seen.  The  Autumn 
Leaves  gives  perhaps  greater  promise,  but  the  children  in 
it  are  so  intolerably  ugly,  and  their  gestures  so  strained  and 
artificial,  that  the  picture  seems  to  me  destroyed.  The 
Rescue  pointedly  exhibits  the  possibility  of  mere  faithful 
rendering  of  nature  yielding  noble  pictures.  Learn  to  de- 
pict her  faithfully,  and  when  you  come  upon  her  in  a  grand 
mood,  you  produce  a  grand  picture.  The  story  of  The 
Rescue,  is  simple.  A  fireman  brings  three  children  in  safety 
from  a  burning  house.  The  mother  awaits  him,  kneeling 
at  the  foot  of  the  stair.  One  of  the  children  she  receives 
from  his  hands;  the  two  others  still  cling  to  him.  He 
stands  upon  the  creaking  staircase,  in  the  full  red  blaze 
reflected  from  the  conflagration.  The  figure  of  the  mother 
has  generally  been  regarded  as  the  principal  one  in  the 

FIRST    SERIES.  22 


254        GLIMPSES    OF    RECENT    BRITISH    ART. 

picture ;  but,  in  spite  of  the  depth  of  tenderness,  mingled 
with  love  and  gratitude,  in  the  expression  of  her  face,  I 
cannot  say  that  it  fully  satisfies  me.  The  fireman  is  cer- 
tainly good :  resolute,  manly,  strong  as  iron,  like  one  accus- 
tomed to  pass  through  the  fire.  But  the  central  figure  in 
the  picture,  its  climax,  if  I  may  so  speak,  is  the  boy  on  the 
fireman's  shoulder.  That  child's  eye  is  the  grandest  thing 
Millais  ever  did.  The  little  fellow  has  just  been  snatched 
from  a  fearful  death,  and  the  fierce  flame  yet  glares  on  him 
its  burning  crimson.  But  it  is  not  terror  that  reigns  in  his- 
face.  He  does  not,  like  the  younger  children,  stretch  and 
shriek  towards  his  mother.  That  mighty  glare  has  caught 
him,  not  with  its  terror  but  with  its  sublimity.  He  gazes 
on  it,  in  awe  and  wonder,  fascinated  by  its  maddened 
beauty. ,-  The  soul  of  the  man,  with  all  its  regal  suprem- 
acy over  nature,  is  in  his  lit  eye;  that  supremacy,  in 
virtue  of  which  man  can  abstract  every  phenomenon 
from  its  effects,  and  behold  it  in  itself;  causing  the  tem- 
pest to  play  before  him  like  a  beautiful  wild  beast,  and 
gazing  into  the  eye  of  the  lightning  until  he  has  mastered 
the  secret  of  its  beauty.  The  younger  children  will  forget 
the  whole  incident  in  a  few  months  or  years :  but  when 
that  boy's  eye  is  dim,  and  the  snows  of  eighty  years  are 
gathering  over  that  fair  brow,  his  grand-children  will  learn 
from  his  lips,  in  minute  detail,  every  circumstance  and 
every  aspect  of  that  tremendous  fire.  If  there  is  nothing 
but  realism  in  this  picture  of  Mr.  Millais,  it  is  realism  of 
a  very  valuable  sort. 

But  let  us  now  bid  farewell  to  the  pre-Raphaelites.  There 
are  one  or  two  young  men,  who  work  upon  principles 
closely  allied  to  those  of  the  brotherhood,  —  if  not,  in- 
deed, identical  with  these,  —  but  whose  genius  seems  to 
me,    in    certain   important   respects,    higher,    and   whose 


GLIMPSES   OF   RECENT  BRITISH   ART.         255 

pictures  are  totally  free  of  crudity,  affectation,  or  sin- 
gularity. At  the  head  of  these,  I  set  the  young  Scotch 
painter,  Noel  Paton.  Very  high  in  their  ranks  are  Mr. 
Wallis  and  Mr.  J.  C.  Hook.  The  two  former  paint  with 
an  accuracy  and  universality  strictly  pre-Raphaelite ;  but 
their  sense  of  beauty  is  so  exquisite  that  when  you  behold 
its  results  you  feel  constrained  to  ask  whether  Mr.  Mil- 
lais  has  a  special  sense  of  ugliness.  If  the  old  theory  of 
generalization  receives  a  support  it  by  no  means  merits, 
from  the  frequent  lack  of  power,  among  the  pre-Raphael- 
ites  expressly  so  called,  to  impart  to  their  pictures  any 
centralizing  interest,  it  is  irrecoverably  overthrown  by  the 
absolute  and  uniform  finish,  combined  with  perfect  unity, 
of  Paton  and  Wallis.  Home  by  Paton  is  the  chief  poem- 
picture  called  forth  by  the  Russian  war.  It  has  the  beauty 
of  truth,  that  beauty  which,  when  reached,  seems  so  plain, 
obvious,  easy  of  attainment,  but  which,  even  in  so  simple  a 
case  as  this,  demands,  if  not  strict  imaginative  intuition, 
yet  so  rare  a  variety  and  harmony  of  powers,  so  delicately 
yet  accurately  attuned  a  sympathy  with  human  emotion,  so 
true  a  sense  of  pathos,  so  exquisite  a  capacity  for  perceiv- 
ing the  line,  invisible  to  a  thousand  eyes,  which  marks  off, 
on  all  sides,  the  tender,  the  graceful,  the  beautiful,  from 
everything  coarse,  forced,  or  glaring,  that  it  is  difficult  to 
name  it  otherwise  than  with  the  name  of  genius.  The 
soldier  has  arrived  in  the  heat  of  the  day,  wounded,  weary, 
footsore,  has  walked  into  his  little  cottage,  and  sunk  on  a 
chair.  His  wife  had  been  sitting  beside  the  cradle  of  her 
child,  engaged  partly  in  sewing,  partly  in  inspecting  cer- 
tain letters,  preserved  in  that  casket,  the  most  precious, 
doubt  it  not,  in  the  dwelling,  which  stands  upon  the  table. 
She  had  been  musing  once  more  upon  him  who  was  away, 
her  eye  now  filling  in  anxious  solicitude,  now  brightening 


256         GLIMPSES    OF    RECENT    BRITISH  ART. 

in  delicious  hope,  now  resting  in  connubial  joy  and  pride 
on  the  letter  in  her  hand;  —  and  he  was  far  away.  Then, 
suddenly,  he  entered  and  sank  upon  the  chair.  She  spake 
not  a  word,  but,  kneeling  down,  laid  her  head  on  his  breast 
and  strained  him  to  her  heart  of  hearts.  His  mother 
meanwhile,  resigning  him  to  his  wife,  had  drooped  her 
head  over  his  chair,  her  face  unseen,  but  the  tears  fall- 
ing. The  soldier  gazed  downward  on  the  face  of  his  wife, 
in  a  silent  rapture  of  manly  tenderness,  of  perfect  love. 
Such  was  the  story  the  painter  chose  to  tell,  and  this 
the  moment  which,  as  the  most  impressive,  he  fixed  upon 
to  reveal  the  whole.  Every  heart  acknowledges  his 
power. 

Smith.  Is  not  the  expression  on  the  face  of  the  wife 
too  negative,  too  sleep-like  ?  You  do  not  see  any  emotion 
through  her  eyelids,  though  she  has  closed  them  over  balls 
throbbing  like  fire. 

Thorn.  I  agree  with  you.  I  think  that,  in  any  case  of 
emotion  so  powerful,  the  face  would  needs  show  more  vivid 
trace  of  it.  But  I  have  heard  it  maintained  that  the 
slumbering  look  of  the  face  is  accurately  true,  expressive 
of  a  feeling  which  is  satisfied,  which  no  longer  goes  out- 
ward, but  gathers  itself  up  in  the  heart.  Perhaps  this  is 
the  more  delicately  penetrative  criticism,  but  I  cannot 
repel  a  suspicion  that  Mr.  Paton  told  his  lay  figure  to 
close  her  eyes,  and  forgot  himself  into  painting  what  he 
saw.  Millais  in  the  same  way  painted  a  girl  with  her  eyes 
shut  for  a  blind  girl,  giving  that  equable  radiance  of  expres- 
sion over  the  whole  face  which  belongs  only  to  the  entire 
complement  of  the  senses,  and  of  course  not  painting  a 
blind  girl  at  all.  This  is  one  of  the  minor  dangers  of  pre- 
Raphaelitism,  but  one  into  which  such  painters  ought  surely 
not  to  have  fallen. 


GLIMPSES    OF    RECENT    BRITISH    ART.         257 

You  have  seen  Paton's  Quarrel  and  Reconciliation  of 
Oberon  and  Titania  from  Midsummer  Night's  Dream  ? 

Smith.  Yes.  They  are  characterized  by  great  spirit 
and  vivacity,  delightful  in  fancy,  masterly  in  execution,  but 
not  comparable  for  a  moment  with  the  bit  of  real  life  at 
which  we  have  been  looking.  He  has  on  one  occasion 
failed,  —  ambitiously,  powerfully,  as  only  a  strong  man  fails, 
yet  indubitably.  His  far-famed  picture,  The  Pursuit  of 
Pleasure,  is  a  failure.  The  subject  was  one  of  surpassing 
difficulty,  to  be  successfully  treated  only  by  the  highest 
imaginative  energy,  and  it  does  not  perceptibly  detract 
from  the  promise  of  a  young  artist  that  it  baffled  him. 
The  idea  on  which  the  picture  is  founded  is  the  common- 
place, that  all  men  follow  after  pleasure,  each  seeking  it  in 
some  particular  manner,  and  each  finding  it  a  delusion. 
The  triteness  of  the  thought  did  not  in  the  least  affect  the 
possibility  of  original  treatment.  It  is  a  commonplace 
truth  that  war  is  replete  with  horrors  and  that  peace 
brings  joy  and  plenty ;  but  the  picture  by  Rubens,  in 
which  this  truth  is  embodied,  is  by  no  means  commonplace. 
Treatment  will  redeem  any  subject.  But  Mr.  Paton's 
treatment  is  irredeemably  bad.  In  the  immediate  fore- 
ground you  behold  a  motley  group  of  pleasure  seekers,  — 
the  warrior,  the  miser,  the  rake,  and  so  on,  women 
mingling  in  the  throng.  Each  of  these,  let  it  be  granted, 
is  finely  conceived  and  painted.  Before  the  group,  there 
floats  in  the  air,  life-size  or  nearly  so,  rich  in  color,  and 
with  a  leering  expression,  a  golden-haired  female  figure, 
almost  entirely  nude.  Lured  by  her  witching  smile,  that 
motley  group  follows  on  heedless  towards  dark  spaces  of 
ocean.  Over  the  Avhole,  afar  in  the  sky,  is  seen  the  Shadow 
of  Death,  cloud-like  and  ghastly,  —  a  powerful  thought, 
suggested,  I  should  think,  perhaps  unconsciously,  by  the 
22* 


253         GLIMPSES   OF   RECENT  BRITISH   ART. 

genius  of  David  Scott.  Omitting  all  consideration  of 
detail,  the  question  as  to  whether  the  picture  is  a  failure 
or  not  resolves  itself  into  this  other,  Has  the  painter 
succeeded  in  bodying  forth  the  unity  in  variety,  and  the 
variety  in  unity,  of  the  universal  pursuit  of  pleasure  ?  Has 
he,  on  his  canvas,  given  local  habitation  and  name  to  that 
mystic  something,  which  allures  all  yet  seems  different  to 
each  ?  To  this  question  I  answer,  He  has  not.  To  ninety- 
nine  out  of  every  hundred,  for  one  thing,  his  figure  of 
pleasure  would  suggest  only  sensual  pleasure;  and  the 
power  of  that  figure  to  allure  the  gambler  and  miser  would 
be  simply  a  negation  or  a  puzzle.  But  even  this  fact  is  not 
necessary  to  my  case.  Be  it  that  sensual  pleasure  is  not 
solely  indicated  by  the  alluring  maiden.  If  any  character- 
istic can  be  named,  in  virtue  of  which  her  influence  upon 
her  followers  can  vary  in  each  case,  the  painter  has,  I 
acknowledge,  attained  his  end.  But  after  the  most  candid 
and  careful  exercise  of  judgment,  I  cannot  discover  any 
kind  of  varying  identity  in  the  figure ;  and  I  am  absolutely 
satisfied  that  none  such  exists.  Therefore  the  painting  is 
an  explicit  failure. 

Thorn.  How  could  the  idea  have  been  better  em- 
bodied? 

Smith.  You  are  very  well  aware  that  such  a  question, 
if  intended  to  invalidate  an  adverse  criticism,  is  weak  and 
futile.  The  critic  does  not  profess  to  be  a  painter  or  a 
poet ;  the  question  he  has  first  of  all  to  discuss  is  how  the 
thing  is  done,  not  wherefore  the  artist  has  failed  in  doing 
it.  But  I  do  not  scruple  to  assert  that,  in  the  present 
instance,  certain  sources  of  suggestion  are  patent  to  all,  by 
duly  availing  ourselves  of  which,  we  may  secure  one  or 
two  important  hints  as  to  how  Mr.  Paton  might  have 
modified  his  treatment.     The  idea  is  one  which  has  been 


GLIMPSES    OF    RECENT    BRITISH   ART.         259 

from  the  earliest  times  familiar  to  the  intellect  and  imagina- 
tion of  the  race.  Poetry  has  variously  shadowed  it  forth. 
How  did  the  ancients  represent  it  ?  I  cannot  but  wonder 
that  Mr.  Paton  did  not  find  a  suggestion  in  the  marvellously 
true  yet  marvellously  beautiful  myth  of  the  Syrens.  The 
sisters  sat  at  the  mouth  of  their  sea-side  cave,  half  hidden 
in  its  twilight  shade,  clearly  discernible  by  the  eye  of  no 
traveller.  There  they  sung  their  witching  song.  It  was 
heard  on  the  ocean  by  the  voyager,  mingling  its  deep  tone 
with  the  waves,  mystic,  indefinable,  irresistible.  To  every 
listener,  that  music  told  a  different  tale.  The  lover  heard 
in  it  the  voice  of  his  mistress.  To  the  warrior,  it  was  the 
promise  of  glory  and  fame.  To  the  miser,  it  brought 
visions  of  treasures  untold.  To  all  it  came  with  irresistible 
potency.  Turning  at  once  to  our  own  times,  do  we  not 
naturally  picture  to  ourselves  the  allurement  of  fancied  joy 
in  some  vague,  half-defined  manner,  the  enchantment  of 
distance,  the  shadows  of  mystery,  entering  into  the  concep- 
tion ?  "  The  curtain  of  existence,"  says  Carlyle,  speaking 
of  Burns,  "  was  slowly  rising  before  him  in  many-colored 
splendor  and  gloom."  Do  not  the  words  superbly  express 
the  idea  generally  formed  of  those  wavering,  varying  tints, 
which  lure  every  one  on  in  the  name  of  happiness?  Or 
are  we  not  apt  to  think  of  promised  joy  as  a  vague  illu- 
mination on  the  horizon,  seeming  to  grow  on  the  sight,  yet 
ever  receding,  ever  disappointing  ?  Or,  once  more,  is  not 
pleasure  thought  of  as  a  rainbow,  followed  by  children, 
never  yet  caught  by  any  child  ?  In  one  word,  indefinite- 
ness  is  the  never-failing  characteristic  of  all  attempts 
naturally  made  to  represent  the  attraction  of  pleasure. 
Had  we  caught  sight,  dimly  through  veiling  clouds  and 
in  the  distance,  of  some  fair  maiden,  striking  a  harp ;  or 
had   some   indistinct,   mysterious   illumination  been    seen 


260         GLIMFSES    OF   RECENT    BRITISH  ART. 

gleaming  over  the  further  waves;  we  could  have  sympa- 
thized with  each  figure  in  Mr.  Paton's  eager  group.  But 
his  Syren  has  come  to  look  us  in  the  face,  and  by  so  doing 
her  spell  has  been  forever  broken. 

Thorn.  The  public  sentiment  coincided  with  your  view 
of  The  Pursuit  of  Pleasure.  I  earnestly  hope,  for  the 
sake  both  of  Mr.  Paton  and  his  country,  that  he  will  not 
learn  to  despise  public  opinion  on  such  matters.  His  Home 
has  awakened  no  feeling  of  disappointment  in  the  multitude, 
who,  be  assured,  differ  from  connoisseurs  in  this,  as  much 
as  in  other  things,  that  they  like  better  to  praise  than  to 
censure.  If,  moreover,  they  are  not  apt  to  censure,  still 
less  likely  are  they  to  fawn  or  flatter,  which  a  coterie  of 
friends  and  of  friendly  connoisseurs  always  do.  Were  I  a 
poet  or  painter,  I  might  not  wish  for  new  imagination, 
melodiousness,  or  success :  but  I  should  wish  and  pray 
that  I  might  not  fall  under  the  enervating,  the  humiliating 
influence  of  a  circle  of  blinded  admirers.  The  poet  or 
painter  who  knows  the  grand  secret  that  man's  honor  and 
blessedness  here  below  consist  not  in  being  praised  for  his 
powers  but  in  getting  that  work  out  of  them,  to  the  utmost, 
which  God  has  fitted  them  to  perform,  will  desire  to  go 
out,  as  far  as  is  possible,  a  mere  voice  or  presence,  into  the 
wide  atmosphere  of  the  world,  with  its  bracing  winds,  its 
ready  thunders,  and  its  benignant  glory  of  calm. 

Smith.  As  I  have  spoken  of  what,  as  an  express  and 
demonstrable  failure,  may  be  pronounced  with  some  con- 
fidence one  of  Mr.  Paton's  worst  pictures,  I  shall  now  turn 
to  what  may  Avith  equal  confidence  be  pronounced  his  best. 
The  picture  to  which  I  refer  might  be  variously  named. 
A  lady  has  just  expired.  A  watcher  bends  over  that  face 
from  which  the  majesty  of  death  has  not  yet  obliterated 
the  smile  of  womanly  farewell.     The  corpse  lies  by  an  open 


GLIMPSES    OF   RECENT   BRITISH   ART.         2G1 

casement,  and,  beyond,  is  the  saintly  calm  of  a  summer 
night.  From  the  dim  mountain-horizon  streams  upwards 
silently  towards  the  zenith,  that  suffusion  of  fair,  faint 
radiance,  which  is,  through  the  whole  summer  night,  a 
prophecy  of  summer  dawn.  Never  painter,  one  had  almost 
said  never  poet,  blended  so  many  great  silences  into  one 
ecstacy  of  repose.  Night,  death,  and  sorrow  make  up  the 
awful  calm.  A  star  twinkling  in  that  sky  would  break  the 
perfect  rest.  The  moon  must  not  walk  in  brightness  there. 
That  veil  of  faint  dawn-radiance  shuts  out  the  gaze  of  moon 
and  stars,  and  only  the  eyes  of  human  love  look  on  the  face 
of  the  dead.  The  lamp  has  gone  out  in  the  chamber ;  its 
last  pale  smoke-wreath  curls  gently  upward  in  the  still 
air.  -. —  I  shall  not  say  of  the  painter  of  such  a  picture  that 
there  is  nothing  in  the  highest  province  of  poetic  painting 
which  he  may  not  attempt ;  it  were  a  superfluous  remark 
in  reference  to  a  man  who  has  already  produced  a  master- 
piece in  the  very  highest  department  of  Art.  No  theme  is 
more  august  or  sublime  than  that  of  death.  Around  it 
gathers  all  that  is  darkest  in  human  woe,  and  brightest  in 
human  hope.  It  is  a  cipher  of  the  mystery  of  human  ex- 
istence. And  Mr.  Paton  has  spread  over  it  the  solemnity 
of  night,  and  touched  it  with  the  glory  of  dawn,  falling  on 
it  from  afar.  In  the  bowed  form  of  the  watcher  beside 
the  pale  corpse,  we  see  that  human  weakness  which  faints 
under  the  mighty  shadow;  but  yonder  radiance  reminds 
us  of  a  victory  beyond  death,  of  the  breaking  of  a  resur- 
rection morn,  of  the  angels  now  welcoming  the  human 
spirit  which  has  fled. 

Thorn.  To  offer  advice  to  a  painter  like  Mr.  Paton,  to 
declare  dogmatically  in  what  province  he  may  best  exercise 
his  genius,  would  be  presumptuous.  But  one  may  be  par- 
doned for  saying  how,  with  his  own  bounded  means  of 


.262  GLIMPSES    OF   RECENT  BRITISH   ART. 

judging,  he  would  like  to  see  Mr.  Paton  exerting  his  powers. 
It  seems,  then,  to  me,  that  he  might  find  a  peculiarly  suitable 
sphere  in  certain  departments  of  religious  painting.  The 
highest  note  of  a  man's  fame  is  not  generally  struck  until  he 
has  himself  passed  away.  It  is  in  the  far  distance  that 
the  great  mind  "orbs  into  the  perfect  star."  It  would 
probably  be  thought  incomparably  absurd  to  name  the 
genius  of  Paton  along  with  that  of  Raphael.  Yet  I  cannot 
but  feel  that,  allowing  for  any  difference  in  degree,  the 
powers  of  the  former  are  in  some  sense  akin  to  those  of  the 
latter.  I  am  strongly  impressed  with  the  conviction,  that 
no  living  painter  is  so  well  qualified  as  Paton  to  realize 
for  us,  if  human  skill  can  in  any  measure  realize,  those 
moments  in  the  history  of  our  Saviour,  when  the  mildness, 
the  tenderness,  the  sorrow,  of  the  human  hearts  and  faces 
round  him,  were  so  touched  and  irradiated  by  his  presence, 
that  the  whole  scene  seems  to  appertain  to  some  region,  if 
not  all  of  heaven,  yet  surely  not  solely  of  earth.  If  any 
man  could  paint  for  us  the  eyes  of  Mary,  "  homes  of  silent 
prayer,"  resting  on  Him  who  had  called  Lazarus  from  the 
grave,  I  think  it  could  be  done  by  Mr.  Paton.  If  any 
man  could  bring  to  canvas  even  a  faint  suggestion  of  that 
Divine  tenderness,  with  which  the  dying  Lord  committed 
his  earthly  mother  to  the  care  of  John,  I  believe  it  would 
be  he.  Only  I  am  by  no  means  prepared  to  maintain  that 
such  subjects  could  possibly  be  so  treated  in  painting  as 
not  to  disturb  and  degrade  the  ideal  of  them  which  dwells 
in  the  imagination  of  the  devout  Christian. 

Smith.  I  also  might  be  well  pleased  to  see  Paton  taking 
the  shoes  from  his  feet  and  entering  such  holy  ground. 
Meantime  it  is  well  that  lus  genius  frequents  such  lowly 
paths,  as,  while  leading,  perhaps  best  of  all,  to  the  highest 
ideal,  secure  his  mind  perfectly  from   extravagance  and 


GLIMPSES    OF   RECENT   BRITISH    ART.  263- 

affectation.  Let  him  paint  such  pure  and  perfect  color- 
lyrics  as  Home,  let  him  breathe  into  simple  joys  and 
sorrows,  over  peasant  faces  and  into  cottage  interiors,  the 
immortality  of  beauty,  and  not  only  will  he  touch  chords 
to  which  the  heart  of  humanity  must  vibrate,  but  will  find 
for  his  own  genius  a  wholesome  and  precious  aliment. 

Thorn.  Have  you  remarked  how  completely  Paton's 
paintings  refute  that  old  generalization  theory  ?  Is  there 
a  generalized  hair's-breadth  in  his  picture  of  Death  and 
Night  ?  Is  not  the  casement  painted  to  its  last  stone  ? 
Has  not  the  brush  lingered  on  each  filament  in  that  faint, 
dying  wreath  of  lamp-smoke  ?  Yet  has  not  the  artist 
proved  himself  capable  of  dispensing  with  the  base  min- 
istry of  imperfection  and  slovenliness  ?  Have  not,  on  the 
contrary,  all  the  details  of  the  picture  been  compelled  to 
do  service  and  homage  to  that  mighty  thought,  to  that 
mastering  emotion,  which  his  genius  set  in  its  central  and 
undisputed  throne  ?     Perfect  unity  and  perfect  finish. 

/Smith.  If  that  miserable  fallacy  required  one  other 
death-blow,  it  would  receive  it  in  this  picture  by  Mr. 
Wallis —  who  stands,  I  suppose,  next  to  Paton  among 
those  who  act  on  the  pre-Raphaelite  principle,  without  fall- 
ing into  the  pre-Raphaelite  grotesqueness,  mawkishness,  or 
affectation.  The  Death  of  Ghatterton  is  a  subject  worthy 
of  the  highest  ambition,  and  requiring  commanding  pow- 
ers. Mr.  Wallis  has  attempted  it  and  not  failed.  Chatter- 
ton  lies  before  us  on  his  humble  truckle-bed,  in  his  squalid 
garret.  The  first  glimpse  of  dawn  sheds  a  drear  and 
slumbrous  light,  of  faint  cowslip-yellow  and  fainter  rose, 
over  the  distant  dome  of  St.  Paul's.  The  window  is  half 
open,  and  on  the  sill  is  one  rose-bush.  A  rose,  a  solitary 
one,  had  burst  suddenly  into  full  bloom,  but  then  broke 
its  slender  stalk,  and  now  hangs  its  head,  the  petals  fall- 


264         GLIMPSES    OF    RECENT    BRITISH  ART. 

ing  one  by  one.  Chatterton  lies  on  the  bed,  his  full 
auburn  locks  falling  over  the  coverlid,  his  relaxed  arm 
holding  the  phial  drooped  to  the  floor,  his  face  pale  and 
rigid  in  death.  His  form  and  posture  express  simply  the 
awfulness,  the  silence,  the  might  of  death.  There  is  in 
the  face  no  triumph  over  the  last  enemy ;  nor  is  there 
lingering  anguish  as  of  the  final  conflict ;  nor  do  fear  and 
horror  cast  their  shadow  over  it.  It  is  the  calm  surren- 
der of  despair :  "  Death,  thou  hast  conquered !  " 

Thorn.  Mr.  Wallis  has  produced  a  noble  picture ;  de- 
serving, it  may  be,  of  Mr.  Ruskin's  expression  of  applause, 
"  faultless  and  marvellous.'1  But  there  was  one  thing  which 
transcended  even  this  picture,  indubitably,  immeasurably 
transcended  it ; — the  bare  fact  itself.  There  is  in  the  work 
of  Art  before  us  a  certain  beauty  on  which  the  eye  can  rest 
with  pleasure.  Part  of  the  dress  of  Chatterton  is  of  a  rich, 
lovely  purple  ;  and  other  touches  of  color  about  the  picture 
complete  the  sweet  harmony  of  which  this  is  the  central 
chord.  Mr.  Wallis  has  permitted  himself  a  certain  ideal- 
izing license;  he  has  paid  a  modicum  of  deference  to 
the  taste  of  the  public,  to  the  delicacy  of  fastidious  eyes. 
But  when  death  smiled  from  beneath  his  grisly  crown  upon 
the  dead  Chatterton,  there  was  no  dallying  with  cultured 
sensibilities,  no  tender  refinement  of  idealization.  The  boy 
staggered  upstairs  that  evening,  haggard,  squalid,  hunger- 
stricken.  Had  Mr.  Wallis  dared  to  give  the  rugged  fact, 
we  should  have  seen  those  cheeks  sunken  and  livid,  that 
flesh  clinging  to  the  bones  with  the  clasp  of  starvation. 
In  all  England,  that  evening,  there  was  no  boy  of  seven- 
teen dowered  with  faculties  so  princely  as  those  of  Chatter- 
ton. And  he  knew  it !  Yes :  that  was  the  most  searching 
element  in  his  agony.  His  critical  capacity  was  developed 
as  fully  as  his  poetical.     He  knew  not  only  his  right  to 


GLIMPSES    OF    RECENT    BRITISH  ART.         265 

literary  distinction,  but  his  power,  if  he  were  but  once 
known,  infallibly  to  secure  it.  He  longed,  he  yearned,  to 
live.  But  a  week  or  two  before,  he  had  written  a  boastful 
letter  to  his  mother  and  sister,  full  of  hope  and  courage. 
He  had  sent  them  also  a  few  cheap  presents,  confident  that 
they  would  be  followed  by  others  of  a  very  different  sort. 
But  hunger  overtook  him:  sheer  starvation  dug  a  grave 
before  his  eyes.  He  did  not  need  much.  One  loaf  per 
Week,  bought  stale  that  it  might  last  the  longer,  was,  with 
water,  all  he  needed.  But  that  was  denied  him.  So,  in 
the  strength  of  despair  and  madness,  he  ended  his  tor- 
ment, preferring  instant  rest  within  the  jaws  of  darkness, 
to  that  agonized  flutter  by  which  he  strove  vainly  to  resist 
the  deadly  fascination.  No  soft,  sweet  colors  met  the  eyes 
that  first  looked  upon  him  next  morning ;  only  threadbare 
ghastliness  and  squalor.  Death,  that  night,  was  in  his 
coarsest  mood,  and  had  arranged  no  picturesque  effects. 
Read  the  simple  detail  of  Chatterton's  life  and  death  as 
given  in  his  biography  by  Mr.  David  Masson,  and  you 
will,  I  think,  allow  that,  whatever  Mr.  Wallis  has  attained, 
he  has  not  realized  the  stern  fact. 

Smith.  But  we  have  wandered  from  the  circumstance 
which  first  attracted  us  to  this  picture.  Observe  how 
minute  the  painting  is.  You  have  the  wavering  of  the 
light  on  the  rose-petals,  you  have  every  crease  in  the  bed- 
cover, every  chink  in  the  garret  wall.  Would  we  have 
felt  more  for  Chatterton  if  the  dome  of  St.  Paul's  had 
been  a  blot  of  black  paint  and  the  walls  of  the  cottage 
random  sweeps  of  brown  ? 

Thorn.  J.  C.  Hook  is  worthy  to  be  mentioned  with 
Wallis  and  Paton.  Of  him  much  may  be  expected,  for 
he  is  one  of  those  men  who  have  really  a  great  deal  tQ 
say.  His  Finding  of  Moses  is  a  beautiful  and  original 
picture.    Perhaps  for  the  first  time  in  the  history  of  Art 

FIRST   SERIES.  23 


266         GLIMPSES    OF   RECENT    BRITISH    ART. 

the  true  key-note  in  that  incident,  the  strongest,  purest, 
noblest  tone  of  human  emotion  it  affords,  is  struck.  It 
was  no  doubt  a  grand  sight,  for  any  eyes  which  that 
morning  beheld  it,  to  see  the  Princess  of  Egypt,  in  glit- 
ter of  jewels  and  stateliness  of  fine  linen,  surrounded  by 
her  maidens,  proceeding  to  the  river  to  bathe,  or  looking 
down  upon  the  babe  found  among  the  bulrushes.  But 
there  was  a  heart  near,  whose  palpitations  expressed  an 
emotion,  to  which  any  feeling  in  the  breast  of  Pharaoh's 
daughter  was  a  faint,  fleeting  tenderness,  a  slight  womanly 
interest.  A  mother's  heart  was  beating  near,  the  heart 
of  the  mother  of  that  child.  And  since  the  destinies  of 
mankind  hung  upon  the  fate  of  that  little  boy,  since  Chris- 
tendom lay  folded  in  that  frail  cradle,  a  Divine  hand  led  a 
little  girl,  standing  by,  up  to  Pharaoh's  daughter,  to  offer 
to  fetch  a  nurse  for  the  child.  The  mother  came.  She 
took  her  boy  into  her  arms,  crushing  down  in  her  breast 
the  tears  of  joy  which  forced  themselves  to  her  eyes  with 
the  importunity  of  anguish.  Then  she  turned  from  the 
king's  daughter,  and  clasping  her  babe  to  her  breast,  up- 
lifted her  streaming  eyes  to  the  God  of  Abraham,  in  grati- 
tude unutterable.  At  that  moment,  the  sublimity  of  the 
incident  reached  its  climax ;  and  that  is  the  moment  fixed 
upon  by  Mr.  Hook.  You  see  the  mother  in  the  foreground 
in  the  attitude  described.  In  the  background,  not  unseen 
but  occupying  only  their  natural  station  of  importance,  are 
the  Princess  and  her  maidens.  The  mind  in  which  this 
picture  originated  must  be  gifted  with  no  ordinary  meas- 
ure of  power,  emotional  and  intellectual. 

Smith.  Mr.  Hook  has  not,  to  my  knowledge,  painted 
any  other  picture  comparable  to  this.  His  more  ordinary 
walk  is  quiet,  homely  life.  In  this  department  his  feeling 
is  so  true  that  had  he  adopted  the  medium  of  words  in- 
stead of  colors,  he  could  not  have  failed  to  secure  an  abid- 


GLIMPSES    OF   RECENT   BRITISH   ART.         267 

ing  if  not  a  sounding  popularity,  as  a  poet  of  the  affections. 
Observe  this  simple  picture.  Had  you  passed  the  cottage 
and  happened  to  note  the  little  incident  Mr.  Hook  records, 
it  would  probably  have  had  power,  slight  as  it  is,  to  bring 
a  tear  into  your  eye.  The  boat  has  arrived,  and  the  tired 
fisherman  goes  up  the  steep  stone  steps,  leading  from  the 
beach  to  his  dwelling.  His  wife  has  come  out  to  meet  and 
greet  him.  And  how  does  her  womanly,  wifely  instinct 
instruct  her  to  give  him  the  welcome  that  most  will  warm 
his  heart  ?  She  brings  out  their  child,  just  beginning,  as 
the  Scotch  say,  to  "  toddle,"  and  pushes  it  gently  before 
her  on  the  steps.  The  little  fellow  has  a  timorous  look, 
as  if  never  before  trusted  so  far  from  his  mother's  arms. 
The  eyes  of  father  and  mother  meet  on  him  in  one  har- 
mony of  love.  All  this  is  doubtless  very  plain,  very 
ordinary.  Yet  does  not  your  heart  bear  witness  to  the 
power  of  the  picture  ?  Such  men  as  Mr.  Hook  and  Cal- 
cott  Horsley  —  whose  feeling  is  at  times,  I  think,  still 
more  exquisite  —  must  exercise  a  genial,  salutary  influence, 
at  a  time  when  Art  is  beginning  really  to  lay  a  finger  on 
the  public  heart. 

Thorn.  By  the  bye,  are  we  to  omit  Burd  Helen  by  W. 
L.  Windus  ?  He  is,  indeed,  an  express  pre-Raphaelite,  and 
we  have  bidden  adieu  to  such ;  but  the  laws  of  conversa- 
tion permit  us  to  double  on  our  steps,  and  if  any  pre- 
Raphaelite  is  worth  turning  back  for,  he  is  Mr.  Windus. 
The  lines  from  the  old  Scotch  ballad  by  which  the  painter 
explains  his  picture  tell  its  story  touchingly  and  well. 

"  Lord  John  he  rode,  Burd  Helen  ran, 
A  live-lang  simmer's  day ; 
Until  they  cam'  to  Clyde  water, 
Was  filled  frae  bank  to  brae. 


268         GLIMPSES    OF   RECENT  BRITISH   ART. 

*  Seest  thou  yon  water,  Helen,'  said  he, 

*  That  flows  from  bank  to  brim  ? ' 

4 1  trust  to  God,  Lord  John,'  she  said, 

*  You  ne'er  will  see  me  swim.' " 

The  girl  clings  to  the  stirrup  leather  with  one  hand,  press- 
ing the  other  to  her  side  with  a  look  of  utter  weariness 
and  desolation.  Lord  Ronald  looks  down  in  stony  heart- 
lessness.  The  river  flows  before,  and  the  ashy  gray  of  an 
evening  sky  roofs  the  lone  moorland.  There  is  a  fringe 
of  ghostly  trees  on  the  sky-line.  All  this  is  true,  and 
deeply  imaginative.  But  I  cannot  think  that  the  fearful 
character  of  the  incident  is  brought  out  with  perfectly  suf- 
ficing power.  At  that  time  of  the  evening,  the  flanks  of 
the  horse  would  have  been  flecked  with  foam;  all  the 
jaunty  pride,  with  which  he  pranced  and  curvetted  in  the 
morning,  would  have  been  broken  with  fatigue :  but  here 
he  steps  daintily  along,  as  if  setting  out  on  his  journey, 
no  suggestion  of  weakness  or  weariness  about  him.  In  the 
face  of  the  rider,  too,  it  may  at  least  be  asked  whether 
there  is  the  determination  necessary  for  the  deed.  Must 
not  such  cruelty  have  been  "  stubborned  with  iron  ? " 
This  man  looks  piqued,  provoked,  petulant.  His  features, 
though  blunt  and  base,  are  small.  He  is  the  image  of 
spite,  of  meanness,  of  petty  malevolence,  not  of  such 
fiendish  and  inflexible  cruelty  as  seems  necessary  for  deeds 
like  his  or  Iago's.  We  shall  not,  however,  be  dogmatic 
on  this  point.  I  am  not  sure  that  attainment  in  crime, 
that  mastership  in  iniquity,  writes  itself  even  in  a  clouded 
form  of  those  big  bones  and  massive  brows  which  denote 
strength  of  character.  It  is  perhaps  with  feebleness  of 
character,  with  incapacity  to  resist  any  suggestion  of  the 
flesh  or  the  devil,  with  total  and  enervating  absence  of  sym- 


GLIMPSES    OF   RECENT   BRITISH   ART.         269 

pathy  with  good,  that  colossal  ability  to  commit  cruelty 
best  consists.  It  may  be  that  we  gratuitously  postulate, 
in  the  soul  of  the  utter  villain,  some  such  powers  and  feel- 
ings as,  in  our  own,  would  have  struggled  with  advancing 
depravity  and  gone  down  only  after  a  fierce  wrestle.  It 
would  have  required  a  giant  strength  of  will  in  most  men 
never  to  have  winced  during  the  protracted  agonies  of 
Cook  the  victim  of  Palmer,  —  never  to  have  flinched 
through  the  whole  execution  of  that  diabolic  purpose. 
Yet  the  face  of  Palmer  gave  no  indication  of  natural 
strength  of  character.  It  had  no  strong,  noble  bones. 
It  was  suffused  with  a  foul  dinginess  of  sensuality,  and 
had  no  look  even  of  dogged  resolution.  It  had,  now  that 
I  think  of  it,  a  distant  generic  resemblance  to  the  face  of 
Lord  John  in  Mr.  Windus's  picture.  Perhaps,  therefore, 
the  deliberate  choice  of  the  artist  was  truer  than  my  hasty 
impression. 

Smith.  The  day  is  westering,  and  yet  we  have  even 
glanced  at  very  little  in  the  wide  kingdom  of  Art.  I  fear 
we  must  leave  the  greater  part,  until  that  promised  day, 
when  we  are  to  have  you  at  the  old  place,  and  you  and 
I  shall  have  another  chat  on  our  favorite  subject,  with 
mountains,  clouds,  and  brooks  for  reference. 

Thorn.  That  is  a  pleasant  prospect;  we  have  indeed 
much  to  talk  of.  Only  a  few  artists  have  passed  in  review 
before  us.  But  we  have  not  altogether  erred  in  fixing 
our  regards  mainly  on  the  prospective  phases  of  Art,  on 
the  youthful  and  the  promising.  It  is  more  important  to 
know  and  hail  the  new  than  to  linger  about  the  old, 
whether  to  build  over  it  a  mausoleum  or  to  pronounce 
on  it  a  solemn  anathema.  We  need  not  part,  however, 
without  saying  a  word  or  two  about  some  of  those  paint- 
ers who  bulk  more  largely  in  the  world's  eye  than  those 
23* 


270         GLIMPSES    OF   RECENT    BRITISH  ART. 

we  have  mentioned,  and  whom  general  consent  would  set 
at  the  head  of  the  contemporary  British  school. 

In  the  treatment  of  marine  subjects,  as  was  allowed  even 
by  the  somewhat  ungenerous  savans  of  the  French  Expo- 
sition, we  stand  supreme;  and  the  first  of  living  marine 
painters  is  Clarkson  Stanfield.  The  Abandoned  is  a  good 
example  of  his  work.  The  scene  is  the  "  deep  mid-ocean," 
no  shore,  no  rock  in  sight.  The  wearied,  mastless  vessel 
has  lain  down  like  a  spent  animal  after  the  shock  of  the 
last  sea,  when  she  is  met  by  another  fierce,  massy  buffet, 
the  furious  billow  dashing  once  more  over  her  timbers  in 
wild,  flying,  filmy  foam.  The  sky  is  broken  in  the  midst, 
and  a  burst  of  white  light  streams  down,  pouring  along 
the  trough  of  the  sea,  and  whitening  every  tossing  wave- 
let, on  the  broad  backs  of  the  swells.  That  light  will  soon 
pass  away ;  for  to  windward,  a  cloud,  still  blacker  than 
those  around  the  vessel,  comes  drifting  swiftly  on.  Be- 
neath the  edges  of  that  cloud,  the  livid  waves  spring,  and 
writhe,  and  dance,  in  the  mad  music  of  the  wind.  Soon 
the  canopy  of  a  new  storm  will  shroud  the  doomed  ship 
in  deeper  night ;  and  away  she  will  roll,  tossed  from  valley 
to  valley  by  the  might  of  the  sea,  borne  into  the  remote 
solitudes  of  ocean  never  to  return.  The  picture  is  one  of 
genius  and  power.  Stanfield  is  your  true  man  to  paint  a 
wave.  He  knows  it  in  all  its  freaks  of  motion,  in  all  its 
wild  play  of  glistening,  wavering,  flashing  light.  He  has 
watched  it  in  the  fair,  racing  breeze,  in  the  vexed  chop- 
ping sea,  where  tides  and  winds  contend,  and  under  the 
murky  tempest,  when  it  gathers  itself  into  a  huge  billow, 
fronting  the  blast  like  an  angry  brow,  corrugated  in  agony 
and  rage. 

Smith.  The  genius  of  Collins  seems  to  have  been  more 
pensive,  and  it  may  be  less  daring,  than  that  of  Stanfield. 


GLIMPSES    OF    RECENT    BRITISH  ART.         271 

In  the  rendering  of  far,  faint  horizons,  and  bleak,  sandy 
flats  of  shore,  I  suppose  he  stands  wholly  unequalled.  I 
could  name  no  paintings  which  bear  you  so  completely  to 
the  scenes  they  represent.  The  salt  breeze  cools  your  fore- 
head ;  you  shiver  sympathetically  with  the  fisherman,  toil- 
ing along  between  wave  and  bent. 

Cooke  must  surely  be  a  substantial,  hearty  man,  enjoying 
life,  and  going  at  his  work  with  a  will.  His  most  generally 
chosen  subjects,  indeed,  are  rather  of  a  quiet  than  a  stir- 
ring character.  He  loves  to  paint  boats  with  sails  faintly 
flapping  over  slumbering  seas,  above  which  his  clouds,  per- 
meated with  that  soft  pale-yellow  radiance  of  his,  are  a  true 
and  fitting  drapery.  But  he  can  paint  a  strong  gale,  as 
well  as  a  glassy  sea.  Observe  this  scene  on  the  Adriatic ; 
Chioggian  fishing  vessels,  &c,  running  into  the  lagune  of 
Venice,  on  the  approach  of  a  borasco  or  violent  squall. 
You  remark  Cooke's  characteristic  orange  on  the  broad  sail 
of  that  big,  bright  boat,  bounding  like  a  sea-monster  in 
front.  How  the  thing  of  life  leaps  into  that  wave,  laving 
her  shoulders  with  the  sheeted  foam  as  the  sea  comes  gal- 
loping like  a  race-horse  from  the  left!  She  positively 
stands  out  from  the  sky  amid  the  storm  clouds.  It  was 
a  sweeping  and  strong  hand,  I  think,  too,  a  joyous  one, 
which  painted  that  boat.  The  picture  makes  you  hold 
your  breath. 

Thorn.  Sir  Edwin  Landseer  is  the  most  popular  living 
painter.  His  subjects  are  not  the  highest,  yet  I  cannot  find 
it  in  my  heart  to  grudge  him  his  pre-eminence.  He  stands 
apart  from  all  animal  painters.  If  Turner  can  be  alleged  to 
have  differed  from  other  landscapists,  by  embracing  in  the 
comprehensiveness  of  his  love  and  power  all  the  moods  of 
nature,  while  they  dwelt  on  particular  aspects,  still  more 
expressly  may  it  be  said  of  Landseer  that  he  differs  from 


272         GLIMPSES   OF   RECENT   BRITISH  ART. 

all  animal  painters,  in  having  imparted  to  his  own  subject  a 
breadth  and  dignity  absolutely  unexampled.  He  has  thrown 
over  the  animal  world  the  light  of  human  association,  a 
task  hard  to  perform,  but  which  he  has  accomplished  with 
incomparable  felicity.  In  bare  realism,  there  may  be  one  or 
two  departments  in  which  he  has  been  equalled,  I  shall  not 
say  surpassed ;  but  wherever  his  supremacy  as  an  animal 
painter  may  be  disputed  by  another,  the  disputed  glory  is 
not,  I  think,  worth  contending  for.  The  ferocity,  terror, 
rage,  and  pain,  of  animal  life,  were  perhaps  never  conveyed 
as  by  Snyders.  But  his  pictures  can  be  profitable  only  in 
such  a  manner  as  gladiatorial  shows  or  prize  fights  might 
be  profitable  ;  and  can  be  vindicated  only  by  such  fallacies 
as  might  be  urged  in  order  to  screen  these  from  a  just  con- 
demnation. I  cannot  look  upon  a  group  of  bears  and  dogs 
rending  each  other,  from  the  hand  of  Snyders,  without 
being  sensible  that  the  man  possessed  observation  to  pierce, 
memory  to  seize,  and  a  conquering  power  of  execution. 
Grant  that  I  find  a  certain  lesson  in  the  earnestness  with 
which  he  must  have  devoted  himself  to  his  task,  a  certain 
encouragement  in  his  marvellous  success.  As  much  as  this 
can  be  said  in  favor  of  the  moral  advantage  derived  from 
him  who,  after  his  fight  of  an  hour  and  twenty  minutes, 
his  one  remaining  eye  starting  bloodshot  from  his  head, 
scarcely,  for  utter  exhaustion,  hears  the  shouts  that  hail  his 
victory.  The  didactic  uses  of  Snyders  are  perhaps  as  great 
as  those  of  Ben  Caunt  or  Harry  Broom.  But  the  sin  of 
palliating  the  misuse  of  power  by  the  very  circumstance 
which  lends  that  sin  its  aggravation,  by  the  excellence  of 
the  gifts  debased,  has  prevailed  too  widely  in  these  hero- 
worshipping  days.  The  time,  I  trust,  will  soon  arrive, 
when  Art  shall  disclaim,  indignantly  and  forever,  the  base 
privilege  of  perpetuating  what  ought  to  be  forgotten,  and 


GLIMPSES    OF   KECENT   BRITISH   ART.         273 

bringing  into  light  what  decent  nature  vails  in  darkness. 
Complete  and  happy  sympathy  with  what  there  is  of  idea 
or  feeling  in  the  pictures  of  Snyders  would  imply  a  gross,  a 
ferocious,  a  brutish  nature  ;  and,  since  distempered  tastes 
are  known  to  grow  by  what  they  feed  on,  all  such  pictures 
ought  to  be  rejected  unmercifully  and  with  scorn.  Let 
it  be  mentioned  to  Landseer's  real  honor,  that  he  cannot 
dispute  with  Snyders  his  tarnished  crown.  A  total  exemp- 
tion from  blame  cannot,  indeed,  be  claimed  for  him.  Once 
or  twice  he  has  fallen  into  the  error  of  painting  the  base 
and  revolting  in  animal  life.  No  humane  man  could  for  a 
moment  look  upon  the  writhings  of  a  transfixed  otter,  with- 
out pity,  shame,  horror;  and  no  painter  ought  to  have 
pandered  to  the  degraded  tastes  which  could  enjoy  such  a 
spectacle.  But  that  was  almost  a  solitary  instance.  The 
sound  feeling  of  the  multitude,  which  conferred  popularity 
upon  Landseer,  warned  him  that  such  pictures  were  essen- 
tially wrong.  In  the  overwhelming  majority  of  cases,  he  has 
fallen  into  no  such  error.  On  the  contrary,  he  has,  as  I 
said,  shed  over  animal  life  an  exquisite  and  novel  illumina- 
tion, poetical  in  a  high  sense,  and  partaking  of  countless 
delicate  elements  of  humor,  of  pathos,  of  vivacity,  of 
mirthfulness.  I  do  n't  know  whether  any  pictorial  critic,  of 
the  small,  nibbling,  pedantic  order,  has  ever  happened  to 
lay  down  the  limits  of  motive  and  expression,  within  which 
the  animal  painter  ought  to  confine  himself.  It  would  be 
pleasant  to  compare  the  result  with  what  Landseer  has 
done,  to  note  how  and  how  often  genius  had  overleaped  the 
stakes  of  mediocrity.  Landseer's  animals  are,  with  the 
possible  exception  I  have  noted,  more  like  nature's  animals 
than  any  ever  painted.  Yet  he  contrives,  while  painting 
them,  to  touch  with  cunning  hand  a  thousand  chords  of 
human  sympathy,  glancing  with  delicate  satire  at  human 


274         GLIMPSES   OF   RECENT    BRITISH  ART. 

foible,  and  gracefully  suggesting  the  more  deep  and  tender 
human  emotions.  Since,  moreover,  he  is  professedly  an 
animal  painter,  no  more  would  have  been  strictly  demanded 
in  his  backgrounds  than  is  given  in  those  of  Snyders  or 
Hondekoeter.  But  he  has  scorned  to  avail  himself  of  any 
such  indulgence.  He  has  given  the  solitude  of  the  Arctic 
night,  the  sweep  of  the  sea-horizon,  and,  above  all,  effects 
of  mountain  mist,  in  a  manner  which  entitle  him  to  high 
consideration  among  landscape  painters.  In  power  and 
range  of  expression,  once  more,  while  still  strictly  within  his 
own  province,  he  has  surpassed  not  only  all  animal  painters, 
but  all  prose  and  poetic  fabulists.  I  remember  no  exception 
to  the  rule,  that  when  writers  have  desired  to  draw  any 
lesson  from  animal  life,  they  have  assumed  a  jocular,  serio- 
comic tone.  But  Landseer's  Night  and  Morning  create  no 
trivial  emotions,  make  no  appeal  to  the  risible  faculties. 

The  drear  moonlight  shivers  through  the  storm,  drifting 
along  the  lake,  and  all  the  mountains  are  wrapped  in  gloom. 
In  the  foreground,  you  see  two  stags  in  contest.  Land- 
seer's utmost  power  is  here  displayed ;  in  the  knotted 
sinews,  entangled  horns,  and  bloodshot  eyes,  of  the  animals, 
you  have  perfect  expression  of  a  rage  stronger  than  anguish 
or  death.  This  is  Night.  Turn  to  the  companion  picture. 
Morning  has  brought  perfect  peace.  The  lake,  still  as  glass, 
watches  for  the  first  cloud  to  rise  like  a  smile  on  the  fair 
face  of  the  sky.  The  mountains  stand  silent  and  beautiful, 
in  the  ruddy  dawn.  The  noble  stags  are  rigid  in  death, 
their  limbs  in  the  unyielding  posture  of  their  last  grapple. 
And,  see  there,  creeping  up  the  hill,  now  almost  touching 
the  booty,  with  a  look  of  archness,  of  cunning,  of  pure, 
approving  satisfaction,  which  Landseer  alone  could  have 
painted,  the  hill  fox  approaches  his  prey.  The  mountain 
eagle,  too,  is  winging  his  way  across  the  lake,  snuffing  the 


GLIMPSES    OF   RECENT    BRITISH   ART.         275 

feast.  And  thus  the  monarchs  of  the  waste  have  ended 
their  mortal  duel !  Never,  in  prose  or  rhyme,  was  the 
story  so  grandly  told.     It  is  fable  become  epic. 

Consider,  again,  his  Highland  Nurses,  dedicated  to  Miss 
Nightingale.  This  is  the  second  poem-picture  called  forth 
by  the  Russian  War.  The  wounded  stag  has  retired  to  die 
on  the  highest  and  loneliest  crag,  curtained  by  the  mist. 
Two  hinds  bend  over  him  and  lick  his  wound.  On  the  rock 
beside,  are  one  or  two  mountain  birds.  Such  a  scene  is 
probably  impossible  in  animal  life,  yet  who  will  say  where 
the  superadded  expression,  separating  them  from  the  animal 
world,  becomes  visible  in  those  life-like  hinds  ?  The  pathos 
of  the  picture  cannot  but  be  felt. 

It  will  be  as  an  animal  painter  that  Landseer  is  remem- 
bered. Yet  I  am  assured  that  he  would  have  succeeded  if 
he  had  devoted  himself  exclusively  to  such  high  ideal  paint- 
ing as  he  has  once  or  twice  attempted.  His  Peace  and 
War  might  alone  support  a  reputation  in  this  kind.  War 
is  all  narrowness,  gloom,  horror.  The  steed  and  rider  lie 
ghastly  at  the  foot  of  the  rampart,  the  fierce  flames  of  the 
cannon  flashing  through  the  thick  smoke  around.  Peace  is 
all  spaciousness,  serenity,  blessedness.  The  unfathomable 
blue  of  the  sky,  the  broad,  smiling  ocean,  the  wide  sweeps 
of  sunny  sward,  these  are  themselves  magnificent  in  con- 
ception, as  a  contrast  to  the  walled  up  darkness  of  war. 
Then  there  is  the  bright  grass  over  the  sea ;  the  lamb  crops 
the  green  blade  that  has  grown  in  the  mouth  of  the  rusty 
cannon ;  a  few  glad  children  sport  in  front ;  and  there  is  no 
question  to  agitate  the  mind,  more  serious  than  the  solution 
of  the  thread-puzzle  on  the  child's  hands. 

Smith.  Shall  we  pretend  to  have  had  a  conversation 
upon  the  aspects  of  Art  in  Great  Britain,  yet  pass  by  Wil- 
liam Mallord   Turner  ?      I  have   so  far    shaken   off  my 


276        GLIMPSES    OF    RECENT    BRITISH   ART. 

despicable  bashfulness,  that  I  shall  venture  to  say  a  word 
or  two  of  that  great  artist,  and  with  them  let  this  desultory 
chat,  which  to  me  at  least  has  been  pleasant,  come  to  a 
close. 

A  complete  or  final  idea  of  the  character  and  achieve, 
ments  of  Turner's  genius  I  cannot  profess  to  have  formed. 
But  I  have  had  somewhat  uncommon  opportunities  of 
observing  his  pictures,  and  have  examined  innumerable 
engravings  from  his  works.  I  can  say  with  decision,  that  I 
have  discerned  certain  lineaments,  vague  yet  unmistakable, 
of  a  gigantic  mind,  great  in  its  simplicity,  in  its  massiveness, 
in  its  sweep  of  comprehension,  in  its  concentration  of 
energy.  Turner  had  none  of  your  perked  and  paltry  origi- 
nalities about  him.  His  power  of  plagiarism  was  as  mag- 
nificent as  Shakspeare's,  Goethe's,  or  Carlyle's.  His  real 
originality  was  no  more  doubtful  than  theirs.  "  He  who 
has  really  caught  the  mantle  of  the  prophet,  is  the  last  man 
to  imitate  his  walk : "  and  he  who  catches  the  mantle, 
without  imitating  the  gait,  is  the  true  original.  Turner 
was  the  most  earnest  of  scholars ;  he  reminds  you  contin- 
ually of  other  painters ;  but  what  he  found  brick,  he  left 
marble.  As  a  realist,  his  grasp  was  irresistible,  and  will  not 
now  be  questioned.  But  it  is  my  deliberate  opinion  that  as 
a  poet  he  was  more  wonderful  than  as  a  realist.  He  ren- 
dered mountains  and  skies,  forests  and  streams,  as  they  had 
never  previously  been  rendered.  Every  bone  in  the  frames 
of  the  reclining  giants  whose  weight  steadies  the  earth, 
every  wrinkle  on  their  brows,  every  gleam  of  light  upon 
their  craggy  foreheads,  he  brought  out  with  solitary  power. 
The  springing  also  of  the  bough  and  the  sinewy  strength 
of  the  stem,  the  wayward  grace  of  the  river  and  boiling 
torrent  foam,  the  hot  haze,  swooning  over  the  distances  of 
mid-summer,  the  scenery  of  the  upper  heavens,  the  lurid  or 


GLIMPSES    OF    RECENT  BRITISH    ART.         277 

fiery  red  of  stormy  sunset,  all  were  Turner's  own.  But  if 
he  surpassed  other  painters  in  these  and  other  provinces  of 
pure  realism,  he  surpassed  them  still  more,  as  I  said,  in 
strictly  poetic,  in  creative  might.  Who  could  select  like 
Turner  ?  You  know  that  city  and  the  scenery  in  which  it 
is  embosomed :  but  did  you  ever  see  it  in  that  grandeur  of 
attitude,  could  any  other  painter  have  showed  you  it  so  f 
You  would  say  cities  and  mountains  were  proud  to  sit  to 
their  great  portrait-painter,  since  none  could  perceive  like 
him  their  characteristic  points,  none  could  so  elicit  and  com- 
bine their  distinctive  and  contrasted  beauties,  none  could 
let  them  so  well  be  seen.  Yet  selection  is  by  no  means  the 
only  power  of  Turner.  Taste  might  go  far  to  impart  or 
regulate  a  power  of  selection,  but  the  sovereign  imagination 
alone  could  give  the  deepest  poetry  that  dwells  in  Turner's 
pictures.  He  seems,  by  life-long  observation  and  musing, 
to  have  detected  nature's  secrets  of  effect,  her  modes  of 
contrast,  her  suggestions  of  thought :  and  his  imagination 
struck  out  more  grandly  that  at  which  she  aimed.  The 
strength  and  stateliness  of  the  precipice,  the  majesty  of 
mountain  shadow,  the  exulting  magnificence  of  broad 
streaming  light,  the  mysterious  suggestion  of  infinitude,  by 
the  steep  and  soaring  line  of  mountain  side  lost  in  the 
hanging  clouds  that  seem  to  vail  immensity,  are  all  as  it 
were  vocal  in  a  picture  by  Turner.  The  mountains  are  no 
longer  dumb ;  Turner  caught  their  inarticulate  accents ; 
and  when  he  made  them  speak,  all  could  understand  them. 
This  is  not  an  easy  thing  to  explain  in  words ;  but  the 
universal  sentiment  as  to  prints  from  Turner  proves  that  I 
am  not  alone  in  finding  in  his  works  the  most  poetic  render- 
ings of  nature's  deepest  expressions.  A  critic,  whose 
literary  immortality  is,  I  think,  as  secure  as  that  of  Sporus  or 
King  Colley,  is  severe  upon  Mr.  Ruskin  for  demanding 

FIRST    SERIES.  24 


278         GLIMPSES    OF   RECENT  BRITISH    ART. 

thought  in  pictures.  The  thoughts  that  are  built  up  in  the 
mountains  may  be  to  him  a  great  mystery.  But  if  you  ask 
me  where  you  will  find  thought,  poetry,  invention,  in  land- 
scape painting,  I  refer  you  to  any  volume  of  engravings 
after  Turner. 

I  cannot  fix  upon  any  picture  to  illustrate  all  the  charac- 
teristics of  Turner's  genius,  and  to  more  than  one  picture, 
I  must  not  now  refer.  Let  me  take  one  almost  indiscrimi- 
nately. In  Lord  Ellesmere's  Gallery,  there  is  a  large  pic- 
ture by  Turner,  painted  evidently  after  the  great  Vander- 
velde  in  the  same  collection.  I  shall  briefly  compare  the 
two. 

The  Yandervelde  contains  a  considerable  number  of  ves- 
sels. In  front  is  a  Dutch  packet-ship,  a  gleam  of  color  on 
its  sail  from  the  dreary  sunlight  to  windward.  It  mounts 
a  broken  sea,  dipping  into  its  foam,  which  dashes  up  over 
the  bows.  To  leeward  is  a  ship  with  sails  clewed  up,  facing 
the  wind.  The  sky  has  two  great  banks  of  cloud,  one  of 
them  again  dividing  into  three  tower-like  masses,  through 
which  is  shed  a  faint  illumination  of  stormy  sunlight.  The 
sea  in  front  is  broken,  yeasty,  racing  before  the  wind  with 
fearful  velocity.     Look  now  to  the  Turner. 

One  vast  bank  of  cloud,  piled  mountain  after  mountain, 
comes  darkening  over  the  waves,  "  cramming  all  the  blast 
before  it."  Its  rounded  tops  are  steeped  in  the  sombre 
light  which  appears  in  the  Vandervelde.  A  gleam  of  the 
same  rests  on  the  sail  in  front.  The  whole  under-part  of 
the  great  bank  of  cloud  is  black  and  thundery ;  beneath, 
the  white  waves  are  seen  mysteriously  rising  and  writhing. 
In  the  distance,  a  tall,  three-masted  ship  has  furled  all  sail 
and  looks  towards  the  blast.  In  front,  two  small  vessels 
are  lifted  into  prominence,  running  foul  of  each  other,  the 
one  with  canvas  down,  the  other  with  bellying  sail  attempt- 


GLIMPSES   OF   RECENT   BRITISH   ART.         279 

ing  to  hold  up  to  the  wind.  A  sea  strikes  them  both, 
dashing  in  wild  foam  over  the  bow  of  that  one  which  has 
its  sail  spread.  The  waves  in  the  foreground  roll  in  one 
or  two  huge,  angry  ridges,  the  trough  of  the  sea  being 
filled  with  seething  foam. 

It  is  known  that  the  picture  by  Turner  is  a  companion 
to  that  by  Vandervelde,  and  was  a  direct  attempt  either  to 
imitate  or  to  grapple  with  it.  But  mark  how  the  con- 
ception, or  rather  conceptions,  of  Vandervelde,  gain  from 
the  touch  of  Turner.  The  forms  of  the  Dutchman's  pic- 
ture seem  to  have  been  dissolved  or  sent  apart,  and  again 
brought  together,  into  grander,  simpler  masses,  at  the 
word  of  a  mightier  imagination.  Vandervelde's  sea  is  cov- 
ered with  ships.  Only  one  or  two  break  the  loneliness 
and  gloom  of  Turner's.  The  sea  of  Vandervelde  is  chop- 
ping and  gusty,  a  broad  plain  of  countless  equal  waves. 
One  or  two  mighty  ridges,  with  millions  of  wavelets  in 
their  hollows,  occupy  the  front  of  Turner's.  But  the  alter- 
ation in  which  the  master  mind  and  hand  are  most  sig- 
nally displayed  is  that  passed  upon  the  clouds.  These  all 
come  together  in  Turner's  picture ;  no  division  breaks  the 
unity  of  the  simple,  overpowering  mass ;  it  rolls  on  there, 
dark,  heavy,  towering,  majestic,  in  the  grandeur  and  ter- 
ror of  tempest. 

It  could,  I  think,  be  distinctly  proved,  that  a  change, 
similar  to  that  observable  in  Turner's  treatment  of  Vander- 
velde's subject,  was  effected  by  him  in  all  that  he  made,  by 
earnest  study,  his  own.  The  conceptions  of  other  artists 
I  compare  to  the  many  hills,  interesting,  varied,  beautiful, 
of  the  newer  geological  formations.  They  may  be  the  pic- 
turesque crags  of  the  limestone,  they  may  even  be  the 
jagged  crests  of  the  metamorphic  hills ;  but  they  are  com- 
paratively low  and  comparatively  many:  the  imagination 


280         GLIMPSES    OF    KECENT   BUITISII  AKT. 

of  Turner,  working  from  lower  deeps  and  with  mightier 
power,  upheaved  the  central  ridge,  the  primary  mountain 
chain,  rising  above  all  the  rest,  unapproached  in  height, 
and  unbroken  and  alone  in  majesty.  Composition  be- 
comes, with  him,  vital  artistic  unity;  prettiness  becomes 
noble  symmetry  and  proportion;  beauty  becomes  sublim- 
ity. I  think  I  can  admire  the  grace  and  elegance,  the 
liquid  sky  and  limpid  water,  the  ordered  pillars  and  dig- 
nified fronts,  of  Claude.  But  my  perception  of  the  fact 
that  a  precipice  is  more  majestic  than  a  palace  gable,  is 
hardly  more  distinct  than  my  perception  of  a  greatness 
and  majesty  in  the  forms  of  Turner  totally  absent  from 
those  of  Claude.  The  latter  is  to  the  former  as  Pope  was 
to  Homer.  And  this  I  say  while  aware  of  the  historical 
fact  that  Turner  studied  Claude  with  tears  of  despairing 
admiration  in  his  eyes. 
And  so,  farewell. 


V. 

RUSKIN  AND  HIS  CRITICS. 

Our  good  friends  the  artists  must  not  be  too  hard  upon 
us.  It  would  be  pleasant,  if  one  only  could,  to  school  our 
ideas  exactly  to  their  standard:  to  watch  their  cunning 
pencils,  as  they  bring  out  lines  and  hues,  too  exquisite  for 
our  exoteric  capacities ;  to  follow  their  clever  pens,  as  they 
set  down  artistic  rules,  according  to  which  alone  we  ignoble 
vulgar  must  be  pleased  or  displeased;  to  admire  nothing 
but  what  they  tell  us  is  admirable ;  to  believe  nothing  but 
what  they  tell  us  is  credible ;  and  to  find  vent  for  our  free 
activity,  only  in  the  becoming  and  ennobling  privilege  of 
paying  out  the  cash.  If  one  could  but  do  this,  he  might 
be  lapped  in  the  music  of  their  most  sweet  voices,  and 
bask  in  a  sunshine  as  pure  as  Claude's.  He  might  even 
be  patted  with  benignant  condescension  on  the  back,  pro- 
nounced a  man  of  taste  and  culture,  called  a  judicious 
critic  and  a  felicitous  collector.  Then  would  gradually 
gather  around  him  that  delicate,  translucent  vail,  that 
misty,  mysterious  garment,  whose  qualities  precisely  re- 
verse those  of  the  shirt  of  Hercules,  for  it  thrills  with 
exquisite  pleasure  the  whole  frame  of  the  wearer,  and 
causes  his  breast  to  swell  with  the  sublime  consciousness 
of  connoisseurship,  and  flutters  all  bosoms  in  the  dove-cots 
of  fashion,  and  awakens,  when  it  appears,  a  whisper,  instinct 
24* 


282  JOHN    RUSKIN. 

with  veneration,  spirit-stirring,  that  here  is  a  veritable  and 
most  alarming  lion,  having  no  relationship  to  Bully  Bottom 
the  weaver.  This  migki,  indeed,  be  delightful;  but  the 
conditions  of  the  enjoyment  are  hard.  Admiration,  sympa- 
thy, pleasure,  are  precisely  the  things  that  will  not  force : 
the  very  consciousness  of  our  human  freedom  is  bound  up 
with  them.  Great,  also,  as  the  studio  and  the  Art-gallery 
are,  the  world  is,  on  the  whole,  neither  a  studio  nor  an 
Art-gallery.  Interests  manifold  and  important,  religious, 
social,  domestic,  will  not  cease  to  play  their  parts  there, 
in  remarkable  independence  of  the  rules  of  the  studio. 
Pictures,  moveover,  are  there  prepared  for  us,  of  a  beauty 
wondrous,  inexhaustible,  older  than  those  of  the  oldest 
masters,  old  as  the  mountains  and  the  skies,  with  which  we 
cannot  help  being  rather  impressed,  but  which  we  cannot 
perfectly  see  or  understand,  until  some  one  show  them 
unto  us.  We  must  not,  therefore,  consent  to  the  consecra- 
tion to  Art  of  a  little  temple,  not  only  apart  from  the  great 
world,  but  shut  against  it ;  we  must  forego  the  proud 
honor  of  being  connoisseurs;  we  must  content  ourselves 
with  distinctions  common  to  mortal  men. 

Ruskin  must  not  be  given  up  wholly  to  the  artists.  True 
it  is,  and  let  the  fact  be  stated  with  due  emphasis,  that  we 
believe  him  to  be,  in  the  province  of  Art,  strictly  defined, 
a  critic  of  marvellous  accuracy  and  of  no  less  marvellous 
comprehensiveness,  whose  sympathy,  universally  acknowl- 
edged, is  not  one  whit  more  remarkable  than  his  science. 
True  it  is,  that  we  think  we  hold  in  our  hand  the  threads 
of  a  detailed  and  indubitable  demonstration  of  this.  Yet 
Ruskin  cannot  be  viewed  solely  as  a  critic  of  what  is 
generally  understood  as  Art.  Nay,  he  cannot  be  correctly 
judged  of  in  the  capacity  of  Art-critic,  if  he  is  contemplated 
in  that  alone.     The  nature  of  man  is  a  unity,  and  no  man 


JOHN   RUSKIN.  283 

can  engage  long  or  earnestly  in  any  work,  without  exibit- 
ing  the  essential  characteristics  which  that  nnity  compre- 
hends. We  must  regard  Ruskir  in  at  least  three  aspects : 
as  a  poet  of  external  nature,  a  revealer  of  its  beauties,  a 
narrator  of  its  facts ;  as  a  thinker,  impelled  by  sympathies 
of  extraordinary  power,  to  reflect  on  the  general  condition, 
religious  and  social,  of  mankind ;  and  as  a  critic,  who  has 
brought  the  general  capacities  of  his  nature,  primarily  and 
systematically,  to  an  examination  of  the  mode  in  which  the 
nations  of  Christendom  have  pursued  and  embodied  the 
Beautiful,  with  special  reference  to  that  pursuit  and  em- 
bodiment in  his  own  country,  in  his  own  time.  It  is  dis- 
tinctly to  be  understood  that,  if  he  has  radically  failed  in 
this  last  department,  he  cannot  be  defended.  He  might 
have  been  a  Richter  to  perceive  the  beauty  of  nature ;  he 
might  have  cast  abroad,  like  a  Luther,  the  seeds  of  moral 
-and  religious  truth :  but  he  came  before  the  world  as  an 
Art-critic,  and  if  he  failed  here,  he  failed  in  what  he  chose 
and  professed  as  his  life-work.  But,  thus  conceding  that 
no  excellence  in  other  provinces  could  have  redeemed  fail- 
ure in  this,  it  may  be  allowed  us  to  add,  that  an  extraordi- 
nary power  to  perceive  natural  beauty,  and  a  remarkable 
range  and  nobleness  of  human  sympathy,  might  promote 
instead  of  counteracting  ability  to  treat  expressly  of  Art, 
nay,  if  not  implying  such  ability,  is  indispensable  to  it.  If 
Art  had  not  a  distinct  character,  —  separable  both  from 
physical  beauty  and  human  excellence,  —  it  would  not  have 
a  distinct  name.  But  can  it  be  denied  that,  standing  on 
her  own  w7atch-tower,  Art  casts  her  eye  now  towards 
the  world  of  nature,  now  towards  the  world  of  man,  for 
suggestion,  instruction,  and  inspiration?  The  connection 
between  Art  and  nature,  be  it  what  it  may,  is  at  least  inti- 
mate and  indissoluble ;  and  a  knowledge  of  nature,  and  a 


284  JOHN   RUSKIN. 

Jbroad  and  earnest  sympathy  with  human  interests,  furnish 
I  a  presumption  in  favor  of  the  Art-critic.  It  would  surely 
be  unnecessary  to  argue  with  any  one  who  did  not  look 
upon  an  enthusiasm  in  Art,  unable  to  connect  itself  with 
enthusiasm  in  nature  and  sympathy  with  men,  as  either  p*T- 
tial,  affected,  or  altogether  unsound.  The  strong  sense  of 
humanity  will  always  recognize,  in  those  wider  emotions, 
the  best  guarantee  of  excellence  in  every  species  of  criti- 
cism ;  and  in  endeavoring  to  attain  a  correct  understanding 
of  any  critical  system,  to  form  a  sound  estimate  of  the 
capacities  and  achievements  of  any  critic,  it  will  not  fail  to 
commend  itself  as  the  best  mode  of  procedure,  to  com- 
mence with  a  survey,  in  relation  to  each,  of  such  initial 
feelings.  The  artists,  therefore,  and  connoisseurs,  must  for 
a  little  stand  aside,  while  we  consult,  touching  the  critic 
they  revile,  the  oracles  of  nature. 

With  an  explicitness  which  was  a  duty,  and  with  that 
scientific  calmness,  with  which  any  man  may  recall  and 
state  the  impressions  of  boyhood,  Mr.  Ruskin  has  informed 
us  of  the  emotions,  with  which,  in  his  earliest  years,  he 
looked  upon  nature.  The  passage  to  which  we  allude, 
occurring  in  the  third  volume  of  Modern  Painters,  may 
fearlessly  be  pronounced  one  of  the  most  important,  as  well 
as  interesting  and  beautiful,  in  the  whole  range  of  biog- 
raphy. We  can  quote  but  a  part  of  it.  "  The  first  thing," 
he  says,  "  which  I  remember,  as  an  event  in  life,  was  being 
taken  by  my  nurse  to  the  brow  of  Friar's  Crag  on  Derwent- 
water ;  the  intense  joy,  mingled  with  awe,  that  I  had  in 
looking  through  the  hollows  in  the  mossy  roots,  over  the 
crag  into  the  dark  lake,  has  associated  itself  more  or  less 
with  all  twining  roots  of  trees  ever  since.  Two  other 
things  I  remember,  as,  in  a  sort,  beginnings  of  life,  —  cross- 
ing Shapfells,  being  let  out  of  the  chaise  to  run  up  the  hills, 


JOHN  RUSKItf.  285 

—  and  going  through  Glenfarg,  near  Kinross,  in  a  winter's 
morning,  when  the  rocks  were  hung  with  icicles ;  these 
being  culminating  points  in  an  early  life  of  more  travelling 
than  is  usually  indulged  to  a  child.  In  such  journeyings, 
whenever  they  brought  me  near  hills,  and  in  all  mountain 
ground  and  scenery,  I  had  a  pleasure,  as  early  as  I  can 
remember,  and  continuing  till  I  was  eighteen  or  twenty, 
infinitely  greater  than  any  which  has  been  since  possible  to 
me  in  anything ;  comparable  for  intensity  only  to  the  joy 
of  a  lover  in  being  near  a  noble  and  kind  mistress,  but  no 
more  explicable  or  definable  than  that  feeling  of  love  itself. 
.  .  .  .  Although  there  was  no  definite  religious  senti- 
ment mingled  with  it,  there  was  a  continual  perception  of 
sanctity  in  the  whole  of  nature,  from  the  slightest  thing  to 
the  vastest ;  —  an  instinctive  awe,  mixed  with  delight ;  an 
indefinable  thrill,  such  as  we  sometimes  imagine  to  indicate, 
the  presence  of  a  disembodied  spirit.  I  could  only  feel  this 
perfectly  when  I  was  alone  ;  and  then  it  would  often  make 
me  shiver  from  head  to  foot  with  the  joy  and  fear  of  it, 
when  after  being  some  time  away  from  hills,  I  first  got  to 
the  shore  of  a  mountain  river,  where  the  brown  water 
circled  among  the  pebbles,  or  when  I  saw  the  first  swell  of 
distant  land  against  the  sunset,  or  the  first  low  broken  wall, 
covered  with  mountain  moss.  I  cannot  in  the  least  describe 
the  feeling  ;  but  I  do  not  think  this  is  my  fault  or  that  of 
the  English  language,  for,  I  am  afraid,  no  feeling  is  describ- 
able.  'If  we  had  to  explain  even  the  sense  of  bodily  hunger 
to  a  person  who  had  never  felt  it,  we  should  be  hard  put  to 
it  for  words  ;  and  this  joy  in  nature  seemed  to  me  to  come 
of  a  sort  of  heart-hunger,  satisfied  with  the  presence  of  a 
Great  and  Holy  Spirit.  These  feelings  remained  in  their 
full  intensity  till  I  was  eighteen  or  twenty,  and  then,  as  the 
reflective  and  practical  power  increased,  and  the  '  cares  of 


286  JOHN    RUSKIN. 

this  world '  gained  upon  me,  faded  gradually  away,  in  the 
manner  described  by  Wordsworth  in  his  Intimations  of 
Immortality." 

It  is  of  the  emotions  experienced  amid  mountain  scenery 
that  Mr.  Ruskin  here  more  expressly  speaks.  But  the 
passage  reveals  a  mental  and  physical  organization,  gener- 
ally adapted  to  derive  pleasure  from  the  appearances  of 
nature,  altogether  peculiar  ;  and  of  mountains  themselves 
it  must  be  remembered,  that  every  form  of  scenery,  of  the 
highest  beauty  or  grandeur,  excepting  only  the  sublime 
solitude  or  majestic  fury  of  the  central  ocean,  belongs 
pre-eminently  to  them.  It  is  from  the  mountain  that  you 
behold  the  sky  above  and  the  valley  below,  the  cloud  on  the 
shoulders  of  the  hill,  the  torrent  thundering  in  its  chasm, 
the  forest  climbing  among  the  crags,  the  lake  slumbering 
around  its  promontories.  That  "  intense,  superstitious, 
insatiable,  and  beatific  perception"  of  the  grandeur  and 
loveliness  of  mountain  scenery,  which  characterized  Ruskin 
in  childhood  and  youth,  implied  a  perception  of  all  that  is 
grandest  and  loveliest  in  God's  earthly  creation. 

The  words  in  which  Ruskin  has  consciously  described  his 
early  passion  for  nature's  beauty  are  brief  and  unpreten- 
tious, marked  by  a  noble  and  manly  modesty.  But  the 
attestation  of  that  passion  which  he  soon  unconsciously 
made,  the  manifestation  forced  on  him  by  the  abounding  of 
the  gift,  is  as  imposing  as  it  is  conclusive.  At  an  age  when 
most  clever  young  men  are  bent  on  distinction  in  debating 
societies,  or  resting  on  their  laurels  as  prize  versifiers,  he 
published  the  first  volume  of  Modem  Painters.  Had  it 
been  the  work  of  a  life-time,  it  would  have  secured  an 
immortality  of  renown  :  and  if  one  or  two  works,  produced 
at  a  similar  age,  have  indicated  a  genius  equally  rare,  it 
seems  open  to  no  dispute  that  no  work  ever  published  by  a 


JOHN    RUSKIN.  287 

very  young  man  effected  so  profound  and  important  a  revo- 
lution. It  at  once  took  a  separate  and  solitary  place  among 
works  in  English  prose.  In  style  and  in  matter,  it  was 
unique.  It  recalled  what  had  passed  entirely  out  of  English 
composition,  the  stately  march  and  long-drawn  cadence  of 
Hooker  and  Taylor ;  beside  the  richness  of  its  descriptive 
detail,  the  Traveller  was  bare,  the  Lady  of  the  Lake  general 
and  indefinite  ;  while  its  clearness  of  conception,  its  vigor, 
and  business-like  tone,  belonged  distinctively  to  prose,  and, 
if  not  distinctively,  at  least  conspicuously,  to  the  nineteenth 
century.  Its  matter  was  equally  remarkable  and  as  original. 
At  a  consideration  of  its  doctrines,  we  have  not  yet  arrived, 
but  its  principal  contents  were  a  series  of  descriptions  of 
the  aspects  of  nature,  and  to  these  the  language  could  show 
no  parallel.  Nay,  it  was,  perhaps,  in  the  nature  of  things 
impossible,  that  at  any  previous  time  they  could  have  been 
produced.  A  great  invention  is  possible  only  at  one  period. 
The  fact  is  proved  by  the  circumstance  that  the  history  of 
invention  is  a  history  of  controversy,  that  great  discoveries 
have  often,  if  not  uniformly,  been  made  by  different  minds 
about  the  same  time.  The  production  of  the  first  volume 
of  Modem  Painters  in  the  sixteenth  century  was  equally 
impossible  with  the  discovery  of  fluxions  in  the  ninth.  This 
assertion  means  simply  that,  at  the  date  of  the  appearance 
of  this  volume,  certain  elements  had  entered  into  civiliza- 
tion, certain  agencies  had  come  to  bear  upon  the  general 
mind,  absent  in  other  centuries,  whose  presence  was  indis- 
pensable to  its  suggestion  or  accomplishment.  Proof  of 
this  is  necessary,  but  conclusive  proof  is  at  hand. 

During  the  eighteenth  century,  and  with  accelerated 
speed  during  the  early  part  of  the  present,  a  great  process 
went  on,  by  which  the  ideas  of  men,  touching  the  realm 
of  physical  nature,  were  rectified  and  defined.     The  most 


283  JOHN    RUSKIN. 

prominent  intellectual  characteristic  of  the  epoch  is  scien- 
tific activity.  The  prospect  embraced  within  the  ken  of 
science  continued  gradually  to  widen,  until,  before  the  mid- 
dle of  this  century,  it  might  be  said  to  comprehend  the 
whole  sphere  of  terrestrial  existence,  and  the  material 
aspects  of  the  astral  heavens.  From  the  frigid  crags  of 
Iceland  to  the  cactus-hedges  of  the  Cape,  from  the  pebble 
at  your  foot  to  the  nebula  in  the  outer  deeps  of  space, 
from  the  flower  of  yesterday  to  the  tree-ferns  of  the  car- 
boniferous period,  Science  had  extended  her  gaze.  Fancy 
and  imagination  seemed  about  to  be  extinguished,  or  to 
become  the  mere  eyes  of  science.  "No  ocean  was  now  sup- 
posed to  hide  Isles  of  the  Blessed ;  no  Atlantis  could  now 
rise  before  the  eyes  of  the  voyager.  Geology  told  you 
the  forms  of  the  mountains.  Meteorology  guessed  at  the 
balancing  of  the  clouds.  The  lightning  went  faster  and 
further,  as  the  slave  of  man,  than  it  ever  went  from  its 
own  lone  dwelling  in  the  thunder-cloud.  The  beasts  of 
the  forest  had  been  watched  and  classified;  the  flowers 
of  the  field  were  named  and  known;  the  very  rainbows, 
with  which,  from  time  immemorial,  the  sun  had  wreathed 
the  mist  and  foam  of  Orinoco,  could  not  escape  the  eye 
of  science. 

It  is  plain  that  any  mind  of  remarkable  power  and  sus- 
ceptibility, going  through  the  stages  of  culture  and  devel- 
opment in  a  time  thus  characterized,  could  not  escape  the 
pervading  influence.  Ruskin  did  not  escape  it:  but  it  is 
important  to  note  the  nature  of  the  impress  which  his 
genius  received.  His  capacity  was  not  distinctively  scien- 
tific. Taking  Coleridge's  antithesis  between  science  and 
poetry,  it  was  rather  poetic.  That  emotion  which  played 
so  important  a  part  in  his  early  history  found  satisfaction, 
not   in   analysis  and  classification,  but  in  contemplation, 


JOHN    EUSKIN.  289 

reverence,  and  wonder.  So  mighty,  however,  was  that 
feeling,  so  earnest  and  perpetual  its  action,  that  its  result 
was  a  knowledge  of  the  external  appearances  of  nature, 
poetic  in  its  order  but  scientific  in  its  accuracy:  while  it 
cannot  be  doubted  that,  at  a  certain  stage  of  its  early 
manifestation,  the  expressly  scientific  influence  of  the  time 
came  in  to  assist  and  define  it.  The  first  volume  of  Mod- 
em Painters  reveals  both  influences.  It  gives  express 
evidence  of  scientific  knowledge :  it  is,  from  first  to  last, 
one  tissue  of  evidence  of  that  pure  sensibility,  which  finds 
delight  in  simply  looking  on  the  face  of  nature,  and  which 
necessitates  knowledge.  This  combination  of  science  with 
poetry  it  is,  which  imparts  essential  originality  to  the  vol- 
ume of  which  we  speak;  and  so  closely  allied  is  such  a 
combination,  with  the  general  character  of  the  age,  that  it 
may  be  confidently  asserted  that  it  could  not  have  existed, 
as  it  certainly  did  not  exist,  in  any  other. 

The  critics  have  said  things  about  Ruskin  which  are  to 
us  amazing,  which  only  the  evidence  of  sense  could  render 
credible.  But  we  have  not  yet  seen  it  asserted  that  he 
is  ignorant  of  nature.  Into  this  arena  no  critic  has  ven- 
tured deliberately  and  openly  to  step.  The  wildest  fury 
of  insolence,  the  utmost  assurance  of  imbecility,  has  here 
confined  itself  to  feeble  innuendo  or  nursery  flippancy. 
And  when  we  contemplate,  in  all  the  comprehensiveness 
of  its  range,  in  all  the  correctness  of  its  science,  in  all 
the  glory  of  its  poetry,  that  revelation  of  nature  which 
he  has  made,  this  is  perhaps,  even  considering  what  critics 
Ruskin  has  had,  not  wonderful.  One  is  apt,  as  he  reads, 
to  imagine  that  the  whole  capacities  and  the  whole  life  of 
the  author  had  been  devoted  to  the  study  of  that  class  of 
natural  appearances  with  which  he  is  at  the  moment  con- 
cerned*   Listen  to  Ruskin's  description  of  the  sea,  and  you 

FIRST   SERIES.  25 


290  JOHN    RUSKIN". 

think  he  must  have  spent  his  days  and  years,  in  watching 
the  beauty  of  its  garlanded  summer  waves,  and  the  tor- 
tured writhing  of  its  wintry  billows.  Follow  his  eye  as  it 
ranges  over  the  broad  fields  of  the  sky,  and  you  are  im- 
pressed with  the  idea,  that  it  can  never  have  been  turned 
from  observing  the  procession  of  the  clouds  across  the  blue, 
or  tracing  the  faint  streaks  of  the  cirri,  lying,  like  soft 
maiden's  hair,  along  heaven's  azure,  or  watching  the  sun 
as  he  touches  the  whole  sky  with  gold  and  scarlet  and  ver- 
milion, to  be  for  him  a  regal  tent  at  eventide.  Go  with 
him  into  the  forest,  and  you  believe  that  he  has  studied 
nothing  else,  but  the  forms  of  stem  and  branch,  the  ar- 
rangement of  light  and  shade  in  the  hollows  of  the  foliage. 
Enter  with  him  the  cathedral  of  the  mountains,  mark  at- 
tentively as  he  points  out  "  their  gates  of  rock,  pavements 
of  cloud,  choirs  of  stream  and  stone,  altars  of  snow,  and 
vaults  of  purple  traversed  by  the  continual  stars,"  and  you 
conclude  that  there  he  must  always  have  worshipped.  But 
when  you  have  passed  with  him  from  province  to  province 
of  nature's  beauty,  and  have  found  that  in  each  he  is  a  seer 
and  revealer,  can  you  fail  to  acknowledge  the  justice  and 
modesty  of  his  claim,  not  to  be  accused  of  arrogance  in 
asserting  that  he  has  walked  with  nature  ?  Can  you,  more- 
over, turn  from  the  loveliness  and  splendor  of  the  succes- 
sive visions  which  have  risen  before  you,  without  knowing 
nature  better,  loving  her  more,  and  associating  with  her 
loftier,  purer,  mightier  emotions,  of  reverence  and  wonder, 
than  ever  theretofore  ? 

We  have  said  that,  in  the  sphere  of  simple  description  of 
nature's  facts,  Ruskin  has  not  been  directly  and  deliberately 
met.  But  among  the  many  half-amusing,  half-offensive 
exhibitions  of  tip-toe  mediocrity,  trying  to  see  up  to  the 
height  of  this  original  genius,  if  haply  it  may  discover  that 


JOHN    RUSKIN.  291 

it  is  merely  a  small  mediocrity  like  itself,  set  on  some  sort 
of  stilts,  there  have  not  been  wanting  hints  that  Ruskin's 
"  word-painting  "  is  an  easy  matter.  The  grandiose  medi- 
ocrity who,  rather  condescendingly,  consented,  once  and 
away,  to  annihilate  Ruskin  in  the  Quarterly,  is  of  this 
opinion.  The  less  grandiose  mediocrity  who  reviewed  the 
first  Exhibition  Pamphlet  in  the  Art  Journal  utters  some 
expressions,  conceived  to  be  like  Ruskin's,  and  remarks  that 
it  is  easy  for  the  latter  to  write  like  this,  however  difficult 
it  might,  we  suppose,  be,  to  discuss  the  high  matters  with 
which  his  serene  littleness  is  conversant.  The  compliment 
thus  paid  to  Ruskin  is  really  too  high.  He  might  rival 
Shakspeare  in  describing  Dover  Cliff,  but  there  is  no  ground 
for  believing,  that  he  could  dramatically  body  forth  a  Slen- 
der or  an  Aguecheek.  We  verily  believe  him  incompetent, 
by  the  utmost  effort,  to  write  what  his  small  critic  comically 
fancies  is  in  his  manner.  But  we  have  no  difficulty  what- 
ever in  making,  to  these  and  all  other  critics  of  Ruskin,  the 
concession,  that  there  is  such  a  thing  as  vague  and  empty 
verbosity,  that  there  may  be  glowing,  brilliant,  fluent  dic- 
tion, without  value  of  thought,  sentiment,  or  information. 
A  book  may  glitter  all  over  with  rhetorical  ornament,  may 
sparkle  with  metaphor,  may,  by  alliteration  and  antithesis, 
please  the  ear  and  fix  the  attention,  yet  be  worthless.  But 
the  descriptions  of  Ruskin  are  done  in  a  style,  which 
nothing  but  an  ignorance,  too  crass  and  unconscious  to  be 
ashamed,  or  a  perception  jaundiced  by  malevolence,  could 
confound  with  the  mere  glitter  of  voluble  feebleness.  There 
is  a  correspondence  between  all  the  real  gifts  of  nature. 
The  true  gleam,  if  you  only  know  it,  will  always  lead  you 
to  the  real  gold.  Able  thinkers  have  recognized,  —  among 
them,  in  express  terms,  Coleridge  and  Carlyle,  —  that  a 
linguistic  capacity  of  sterling  and  surpassing  excellence  is 


292  JOHN    RUSKIN. 

always  connected  with  real  mental  faculty,  intellectual  or 
emotional.  And  we  assert  with  perfect  confidence,  that 
such  verbal  pictures  as  are  drawn  by  Ruskin  never  were 
drawn,  and  could  not  possibly  be  drawn,  without  the 
existence  of  such  real  faculty.  They  are  distinguished  by 
one  quality  which  never  pertains  to  false  rhetoric :  the 
quality  of  unity.  You  may  string  together  fact  after  fact, 
and,  to  make  their  jingle  somewhat  more  musical,  you  may 
put  ever  so  many  sounding  adjectives  between.  But  in 
order  to  place  before  the  eye  of  the  reader  the  distinct 
features  of  a  face,  nay  the  exact  likeness  of  a  tree,  a  flower, 
a  snow-flake,  so  that  he  will  have  each  plainly  within  the 
sphere  of  his  vision,  an  act  of  real  observation  must  have 
been  performed,  a  capacity  to  see  what  is  distinctive  must 
have  been  possessed,  a  certain  amount  of  genuine  mental 
force  must  have  been  put  in  exercise.  And  if  a  man  sets 
before  you,  in  all  its  breadth  and  clearness;  a  wide  land- 
scape, letting  you  see  its  main  lines  as  distinctly  as  in  a 
surveyor's  map,  yet  covering  it  with  the  very  colors  in 
which  nature  has  dressed  it,  it  becomes  mere  stupidity  and 
ignorance  to  deny  the  display  of  real  mental  power.  The 
easel  of  a  great  painter  might  be  covered  with  brilliant 
colors,  yet  the  whole  would  be  a  daub  ;  the  picture  he  has 
completed  may  show  every  tint  on  the  easel,  it  may  show  a 
great  many  more,  and  yet  be  no  daub  :  in  the  one  case,  the 
colors  mean  nothing,  they  are  held  together  by  no  relation ; 
in  the  other,  every  color  is  in  its  own  place,  every  tint  is 
vocal,  and  the  voice  of  the  whole  is  one.  Would  it  not  be 
a  poor  mistake,  to  confound  the  richness  and  abundance  of 
the  picture's  color,  with  the  confused  brilliancy  produced 
by  the  many  colors  of  the  daub  ?  Yet  this  is  precisely  the 
pitiful  and  painful  mistake  of  those  critics,  who,  having 
discovered,  by  the  exercise  of'  their  critical  genius,  that 


JOHN    RUSKIN.  293 

where  there  is  verbiage  there  must  be  many  words,  exclaim, 
whenever  they  perceive  many  words,  that  there  is  verbiage. 
Ruskin's  words  are  used  to  bring  out  the  minutest  facts  of 
nature,  the  light  and  shade  on  a  blade  of  grass,  the  blend- 
ing of  hue  in  the  rainbow,  the  melting  into  each  other  of 
the  cloud-shadows  upon  the  mountain  side  ;  and  critics  such 
as  now  find  admission  into  the  Quarterly,  whose  verbal 
powers,  of  fair  average  excellence^  are  to  those  of  Ruskin, 
as  the  pictorial  talents  of  a  sign-painter  are  to  those  of  Noel 
Paton,  sneer  at  his  facile  word-painting,  To  show  the 
flickering  dance  of  sunbeams  on  forest  leaves,  to  set  before 
us  the  very  spring  and  prancing  of  the  waves,  to  word-paint 
the  wreathing  of  the  mist  and  every  caprice  and  humor  of 
the  sky,  required  rather  an  abundant  supply  of  words  ;  but 
the  supply  at  Ruskin's  command  was  a  small  matter  to  his 
power  of  laying  them  on,  to  the  exquisite  precision  with 
which  he  applied  every  vocable.  In  all  that  we  are  now 
saying,  we  must,  for  proof,  appeal  mainly  to  our  own  experi- 
ence, and  refer  the  reader  to  Ruskin's  own,  pages.  We  do 
not,  for  our  part,  recall  a  single  instance,  in  which  he  has 
deliberately  set  himself  to  place  a  scene  before  our  eyes, 
without  enabling  us,  after  a  sufficiently  close  and  steady 
look,  to  see  it  in  its  grand,  consistent  features.  "We  invite 
readers  to  test  the  matter  for  themselves.  But  we  shall 
quote  one  passage,  which  exhibits  as  well  as  any  we  can 
recollect,  the  so-called  verbiage  of  Ruskin.  Our  readers 
shall  peruse  it,  before  we  make  any  remarks  upon  it.  It  is 
a  description  of  the  Fall  of  SchafFhausen  :  —  "  Stand  for  an 
hour  beside  the  Fall  of  Schaffhausen,  on  the  north  side 
where  the  rapids  are  long,  and  watch  how  the  vault  of 
water  first  bends,  unbroken,  in  pure  polished  velocity,  over 
the  arching  rocks  at  the  brow  of  the  cataract,  covering 
them  with  a  dome  of  crystal  twenty  feet  thick,  so  swift 
25* 


294  JOHN    RUSKIN. 

that  its  motion  is  unseen  except  when  a  foam  globe  from 
above  darts  over  it  like  a  falling  star ;  and  how  the  trees 
are  lighted  above  it  under  all  their  leaves,  at  the  instant 
that  it  breaks  into  foam;  and  how  all  the  hollows  of  that 
foam  burn  with  green  fire  like  so  much  shattering  chryso- 
prase  ;  and  how,  ever  and  anon,  startling  you  with  its  white 
flash,  a  jet  of  spray  leaps  hissing  out  of  the  fall,  like  a 
rocket,  bursting  in  the  wind  and  driven  away  in  dust, 
filling  the  air  with  light ;  and  how,  through  the  curdling 
wreaths  of  the  restless  crashing  abyss  below,  the  blue 
of  the  water,  paled  by  the  foam  in  its  body,  shows 
purer  than  the  sky  through  white  rain-cloud ;  while  the 
shuddering  iris  stoops  in  tremulous  stillness  over  all,  fading 
and  flushing  alternately  through  the  choking  spray  and 
shattered  sunshine,  hiding  itself  at  last  among  the  thick 
golden  leaves  which  toss  to  and  fro  in  sympathy  with  the 
wild  water ;  their  dripping  masses  lifted  at  intervals,  like 
sheaves  of  loaded  corn,  by  some  stronger  gush  from  the 
cataract,  and  bowed  again  upon  the  mossy  rocks  as  its  roar 
dies  away ;  the  dew  gushing  from  their  thick  branches 
through  drooping  clusters  of  emerald  herbage,  and  spark- 
ling in  white  threads  along  the  dark  rocks  of  the  shore, 
feeding  the  lichens  which  chase  and  chequer  them  with 
purple  and  silver." 

It  is  possible  that,  at  first  glance,  this  may  appear  a  mass 
of  gorgeous  confusion:  and  it  is  certain  that  a  hurried 
glance  will  convey  but  a  slight  idea  of  what  it  contains. 
In  following  the  long  evolution  of  the  sentence,  something 
of  fatigue  may  be  experienced,  and  the  description  would 
doubtless  have  been  more  generally  and  readily  appreci- 
ated, had  the  mind  been  rested  by  one  or  two  stops  skil- 
fully inserted.  But  it  may  be  questioned  whether  the 
impression   of  concentrated  power,  of  mass,   of  urgent, 


JOHN    RUSKIN.  295 

irresistible  haste,  could  have  been  so  well  conveyed  by 
a  succession  of  sentences.  The  point  to  be  peculiarly 
noted,  however,  is  the  nature  of  the  "verbiage,"  abun- 
dant enough  no  doubt,  of  the  passage.  Let  the  reader, 
amid  all  its  plenitude  of  adjective,  set  his  finger,  if  he  can, 
upon  an  epithet  that  could  be  dispensed  with,  a  word  which 
does  not  state  some  fact  or  define  some  quality.  Had  the 
same  space  been  filled  with  ejaculations  about  the  grandeur 
and  sublimity  of  the  scene  —  had  we  heard  only  of  Titanic 
power,  and  inexpressible  beauty,  and  tremendous  velocity 
—  there  would  have  been  an  example  of  verbiage.  But 
examine  the  passage  clause  by  clause,  and  you  find  that 
its  richness  of  expression  is  not  by  any  means  so  remark- 
able as  its  condensation.  The  significance  of  the  adjective 
"  polished,"  applied  to  the  velocity  of  the  vaulted  water, 
might  be  expanded  into  pages.  You  are  told,  in  one 
word,  that  the  rocks  at  the  brow  of  the  cataract  are 
arched;  you  see  the  light  breaking  up  from  the  foam 
under  the  leaves;  you  are  led  from  sight  to  sight,  until 
you  know  the  tints  of  the  lichens  on  the  wetted  rocks, 
and  mark  the  -foam  paling  the  water  under  its  surface ; 
and  from  first  to  last  there  is  not  an  indefinite  touch,  a 
superfluous  word.  To  attempt  to  detail  what  is  in  the 
passage  is  found  to  be  impossible:  you  cannot  say  what 
Ruskin  has  told  you  in  so  few  words  as  he  has  told  it. 

But  masterly  as  this  description  is,  it  can  rank  only  with 
the  less  remarkable  among  Ruskin's  pictures  of  external 
nature.  The  subject  to  be  described  was  comparatively 
circumscribed,  and  there  was  little  assistance  rendered  to 
the  associative  imagination,  in  connecting  its  bare  facts 
with  human  sympathy.  But  in  descriptions  too  numerous 
to  be  referred  to  here,  —  in  such  pictures  as  that  of  the 
Campagna  of  Rome  under  evening  light,  and  that  of  Tur- 


29G  JOHN    RUSKIN. 

ner's  Slave  Ship,  —  not  only  are  the  grand  lines  of  fact  put 
strongly  in,  but  that  idealizing  power  is  displayed,  which, 
on  whatever  occasion,  or  in  whatever  form  exhibited, 
whether  in  the  poetry  of  a  Shakspeare  or  Byron,  in 
the  prose  of  a  Carlyle,  a  Richter,  a  Ruskin,  in  the  colors 
of  a  Titian  or  Turner,  seems  to  be  radically  the  same, 
and  marks  the  highest  genius.  If  any  single  example  of 
Ruskin's  display  of  this  power  were  to  be  regarded  as 
more  than  an  indication,  a  faint  suggestion,  of  what  he 
has  done,  the  error  would  be  complete :  but  if  the  reader 
can  appreciate  a  very  small  part  in  its  bearing  upon  the 
whole,  and  thinks  it  important,  as  we  do,  that,  in  every 
form  of  criticism,  at  least  an  opportunity  should  be  af- 
forded of  comparing  the  writer's  words  with  his  allega- 
tions, he  may  not  deem  it  inappropriate  that  we  subjoin 
two  passages,  which,  if  not  in  Ruskin's  very  highest  style, 
/yet  appear  to  us  to  display,  along  with  the  unfailing  real- 
i  ism,  the  scientific  accuracy,  of  which  so  much  has  been  said, 
traces  of  that  higher  power  which  is  characteristic  of  con- 
summate genius.  The  first  is  from  the  second  volume  of 
The  Stones  of  Venice,  the  second  from  the  third  volume 
of  Modern  Painters. 

BIRD'S-EYE  VIEW  OF   THE   SCENERY  OF   EUROPE,  IN  ITS  CORRE- 
SPONDENCE   WITH  NATIONAL    CHARACTER. 

"  The  charts  of  the  world  which  have  been  drawn  up  by 
modern  science  have  thrown  into  a  narrow  space  the  ex- 
pression of  a  vast  amount  of  knowledge,  but  I  have  never 
yet  seen  any  one  pictorial  enough  to  enable  the  spectator 
to  imagine  the  kind  of  contrast  in  physical  character  which 
exists  between  northern  and  southern  countries.  We  know 
the  differences  in  detail,  but  we  have  not  that  broad  glance 
and  grasp  which  would  enable  us  to  feel  them  in  their  ful- 


JOHN    RUSKIN.  297 

ness.  We  know  that  gentians  grow  on  the  Alps,  and  olives 
on  the  Apennines ;  but  we  do  not  enough  conceive  for  our- 
selves that  variegated  mosaic  of  the  world's  surface  which  a 
bird  sees  in  its  migration, — that  difference  between  the  dis- 
trict of  the  gentian  and  of  the  olive,  which  the  stork  and 
the  swallow  see  far  off,  as  they  lean  upon  the  sirocco  wind. 
Let  us  for  a  moment  try  to  raise  ourselves  even  above  the 
level  of  their  flight,  and  imagine  the  Mediterranean  lying 
beneath  us  like  an  irregular  lake,  and  all  its  ancient  pro- 
montories sleeping  in  the  sun:  here  and  there  an  angry 
spot  of  thunder,  a  gray  stain  of  storm,  moving  upon  the 
burning  field ;  and  here  and  there  a  fixed  wreath  of  white 
volcano  smoke,  surrounded  by  its  circle  of  ashes ;  but  for 
the  most  part  a  great  peacefulness  of  light,  Syria  and 
Greece,  Italy  and  Spain,  laid  like  pieces  of  golden  pave- 
ment into  the  sea-blue,  chased,  as  we  stoop  nearer  to  them, 
with  bossy  beaten-work  of  mountain  chains,  and  glowing 
softly  with  terraced  gardens,  and  flowers  heavy  with  frank- 
incense, mixed  among  masses  of  laurel,  and  orange,  and 
plumy  palm,  that  abate  with  their  gray-green  shadows  the 
burning  of  the  marble  rocks,  and  of  the  ledges  of  por- 
phyry sloping  under  lucent  sand.  Then  let  us  pass  further 
towards  the  north,  until  we  see  the  orient  colors  change 
gradually  into  a  vast  belt  of  rainy  green,  where  the  pas- 
tures of  Switzerland,  and  poplar  valleys  of  France,  and 
dark  forests  of  the  Danube  and  Carpathians,  stretch  from 
the  mouths  of  the  Loire  to  those  of  the  Volga,  seen  through 
clefts  in  gray  swirls  of  rain-cloud  and  flaky  veils  of  the 
mist  of  the  brooks,  spreading  low  along  the  pasture  lands : 
and  then,  further  north  still,  to  see  the  earth  heave  into 
mighty  masses  of  leaden  rock  and  heathy  moor,  bor- 
dering with  a  broad  waste  of  gloomy  purple  that  belt 
of  field   and  wood,   and    splintering    into  irregular   and 


298  JOHN    RUSKIN. 

grisly  islands,  amidst  the  northern  seas,  beaten  by  storm, 
and  chilled  by  ice-drift,  and  tormented  by  furious  pulses 
of  contending  tide,  until  the  roots  of  the  last  forests  fail 
from  among  the  hill  ravines,  and  the  hunger  of  the  north 
wind  bites  the  peaks  into  barrenness;  and,  at  last,  the 
wall  of  ice,  durable  like  iron,  sets,  death-like,  its  white 
teeth  against  us  out  of  the  polar  twilight.  And  having 
once  traversed  in  thought  this  gradation  of  the  zoned  iris 
of  the  earth  in  all  its  material  vastness,  let  us  go  down 
nearer  to  it,  and  watch  the  parallel  change  in  the  belt  of 
animal  life :  the  multitudes  of  swift  and  brilliant  creatures 
that  glance  in  the  air  and  sea,  or  tread  the  sands  of  the 
southern  zone ;  striped  zebras  and  spotted  leopards,  glis- 
tering serpents  and  birds  arrayed  in  purple  and  scarlet. 
Let  us  contrast  their  delicacy  and  brilliancy  of  color  and 
swiftness  of  motion,  with  the  frost-cramped  strength,  and 
shaggy  covering,  and  dusky  plumage  of  the  northern 
tribes ;  contrast  the  Arabian  horse  with  the  Shetland,  the 
tiger  and  leopard  with  the  wolf  and  bear,  the  antelope 
with  the  elk,  the  bird  of  Paradise  with  the  osprey;  and 
then,  submissively  acknowledging  the  great  laws  by  which 
the  earth  and  all  that  it  bears  are  ruled  throughout  their 
being,  let  us  not  condemn,  but  rejoice  in  the  expression 
by  man  of  his  own  rest  in  the  statutes  of  the  land  which 
gave  him  birth.  Let  us  watch  him  with  reverence  as  he 
sets  side  by  side  the  burning  gems,  and  smoothes  with 
soft  sculpture  the  jasper  pillars,  that  are  to  reflect  a  cease- 
less sunshine,  and  rise  into  a  cloudless  sky :  but  not  with 
less  reverence  let  us  stand  by  him,  when,  with  rough 
strength  and  hurried  stroke,  he  smites  an  uncouth  anima- 
tion out  of  the  rocks  which  he  has  torn  from  among  the 
moss  of  the  moorland,  and  heaves  into  the  darkened  air 
the  pile  of  iron  buttress  and  rugged  wall,  instinct  with 


JOHN    RUSKIN.  299 

work  of  an  imagination  as  wild  and  wayward  as  the  nor- 
thern sea ;  creations  of  ungainly  shape  and  rigid  limb,  but 
full  of  wolfish  life ;  fierce  as  the  winds  that  beat,  and 
changeful  as  the  clouds  that  shade  them." 

THE   GREAT   MOUNTAINS. 

"  Inferior  hills  ordinarily  interrupt,  in  some  degree,  the 
richness  of  the  valleys  at  their  feet ;  the  gray  downs  of 
southern  England,  and  treeless  coteaux  of  central  France, 
and  gray  swells  of  Scottish  moor,  whatever  peculiar  charm 
they  may  possess  in  themselves,  are  at  least  destitute  of 
those  which  belong  to  the  woods  and  fields  of  the  Low- 
lands. But  the  great  mountains  lift  the  lowlands  on  their 
sides.  Let  the  reader  imagine,  first,  the  appearance  of  the 
most  varied  plain  of  some  richly  cultivated  country ;  let 
him  imagine  it  dark  with  graceful  woods,  and  soft  with 
deepest  pastures ;  let  him  fill  the  space  of  it,  to  the  utmost 
horizon,  with  innumerable  and  changeful  incidents  of 
scenery  and  life;  leading  pleasant  streamlets  through  its 
meadows,  strewing  clusters  of  cottages  beside  their  banks, 
tracing  sweet  footpaths  through  its  avenues,  and  animating 
its  fields  with  happy  flocks,  and  slow  wandering  spots  of 
cattle ;  and  when  he  has  wearied  himself  with  endless 
imagining,  and  left  no  space  without  some  loveliness  of  its 
own,  let  him  conceive  all  this  great  plain,  with  its  infinite 
treasures  of  natural  beauty  and  happy  human  life,  gathered 
up  in  God's  hands  from  one  edge  of  the  horizon  to  the 
other,  like  a  woven  garment  ;  and  shaken  into  deep  falling 
folds,  as  the  robes  droop  from  a  king's  shoulders ;  all  its 
bright  rivers  leaping  into  cataracts  along  the  hollows  of  its 
fall,  and  all  its  forests  rearing  themselves  aslant  against  its 
slopes,  as  a  rider  rears  himself  back  when  his  horse  plunges ; 
and  all  its  villages  nestling  themselves  into  the  new  wind- 


300  JOHN    BUSKIN. 

ings  of  its  glens;  and  all  its  pastures  thrown  into  steep 
waves  of  greensward,  dashed  with  dew  along  the  edges  of 
their  folds,  and  sweeping  down  into  endless  slopes,  with  a 
cloud  here  and  there  lying  quietly,  half  on  the  grass,  half  in 
the  air ;  and  he  will  have  as  yet,  in  all  this  lifted  world, 
only  the  foundation  of  one  of  the  great  Alps.  And  what- 
ever is  lovely  in  the  lowland  scenery  becomes  lovelier  in 
this  change :  the  trees  which  grew  heavily  and  stiffly  from 
the  level  line  of  plain  assume  strange  curves  of  strength 
and  grace  as  they  bend  themselves  against  the  mountain 
side ;  they  breathe  more  freely,  and  toss  their  branches 
more  carelessly  as  each  climbs  higher,  looking  to  the  clear 
light  above  the  topmost  leaves  of  its  brother  tree;  the 
flowers  which  on  the  arable  plain  fell  before  the  plough,  now 
find  out  for  themselves  unapproachable  places,  where  year 
by  year  they  gather  into  happier  fellowship,  and  fear  no 
evil ;  and  the  streams  which  in  the  level  land  crept  in  dark 
eddies  by  unwholesome  banks,  now  move  in  showers  of 
silver,  and  are  clothed  with  rainbows,  and  bring  health  and 
life  wherever  the  glance  of  their  waves  can  reach." 

We  have  said  that  if  Ruskin  has  erred  in  his  express  Art- 
criticism,  he  cannot  be  defended  from  the  charge  of  having 
radically  mistaken  his  duty,  and  failed  in  what  he  selected 
as  the  business  of  his  life.  This  remark  we  do  not  in  any 
sense  qualify.  We  beg  leave,  also,  to  observe,  that  for 
artists  and  their  art$  we  entertain  a  deep  respect.  Painters 
in  general  are  certainly  raised  above  the  ordinary  run  of 
men,  by  the  delicacy  of  their  tastes  and  by  their  devotion 
to  beauty :  painting  is  an  art  which  may  afford  the  purest 
delight,  and  ennoble  while  it  pleases.  But  we  must  main- 
tain that,  however  erroneous  Ruskin's  Art-theories  might  be 
proved,  the  revelations  of  nature  which  he  has  made  would 


JOHN    RUSKIN.  301 

entitle  him  to  separate  and  lofty  honor ;  and  that,  when 
artists,  believing  they  demonstrate  his  errors  in  matters 
connected  solely  with  Art,  imagine  that  they  altogether 
disentitle  him  to  regard,  —  prove  him  a  man  of  small 
capacity  or  achievement,  —  they  wholly  misconceive  their 
powers^  and  the  attitude  in  which  both  they  and  Ruskin 
stand  to  the  public.  They  and  he,  looked  at  in  one  impor- 
tant aspect,  stand  between  us  and  nature.  If  Ruskin's 
word-paintings  show  us  more  of  nature  than  their  color- 
paintings,  we  shall  not  permit  the  manner  of  their  repre- 
sentation to  prejudice  us  against  him  and  in  favor  of  them. 
Art  may  be  difficult  to  know  and  understand  :  but  nature 
is  not  so  easy.  Custom  has  cast  over  her  face  its  obscuring 
veil ;  we  require  to  be  awakened  to  pierce  it,  we  require  to 
have  it  drawn  aside  that  we  may  see  the  features  beneath. 
It  seems  to  be  an  ordinance  of  Providence  in  this  world  — 
and  it  is  a  benign  and  beautiful  ordinance  —  that  everything, 
excepting,  and  that  perhaps  not  always,  the  influence  of  the 
Divine  Spirit  on  the  mind,  possessed  and  enjoyed  by  man, 
shall  come  to  him  through  the  instrumentality  of  his  fellows. 
The  truth  perceived  first  by  one  becomes  the  property  of 
millions ;  the  delight,  first  felt  in  a  single  breast,  is  com- 
municated by  sympathy,  and  thrills  through  a  thousand 
bosoms.  A  great  man  lends  a  voice  to  the  hills  and  adds  a 
music  to  the  streams :  he  looks  on  the  sea,  and  it  becomes 
more  calmly  beautiful,  on  the  clouds  and  they  are  more 
radiantly  touched :  he  becomes  a  priest  of  the  mysteries,  a 
dispenser  of  the  charities,  of  nature,  and  men  call  him  poet. 
Ruskin  stands  among  a  select  and  honored  few,  who  have 
thus  interpreted  nature's  meaning,  and  conveyed  her  bounty 
to  mankind.  He  has  spoken  with  a  voice  of  power,  of 
those  pictures,  which  ever  change  yet  are  ever  new,  which 
are  old  yet  not  dimmed  or  defaced,  of  the  beauty  of  which 

FIRST   SERIES.  26 


302  JOHN   RUSKIN. 

all  Art  is  an  acknowledgment,  of  the  admiration  of  which 
all  Art  is  the  result,  but  which,  having  hung  in  our  view 
since"  childhood,  we  are  apt  to  pass  lightly  by.  He  has 
reminded  us  that  Morning,  rosy-fingered  as  in  the  days  of 
Homer,  has  yet  a  new  and  distinct  smile  at  each  arising, 
and  that,  as  she  steps  along  the  ocean,  its  foam  is,  always 
wreathed  into  new  broideries  of  gold  and  roses.  He  has 
shown  us,  by  evidence  which  none  can  resist,  that  no  true 
lover  ever  trysted  with  Spring,  by  her  own  fountains  or  in 
her  own  woods,  without  seeing  some  beauty  never  seen 
before.  At  his  bidding,  we  awake  to  a  new  consciousness 
of  the  beauty  and  grandeur  of  the  world.  We  have  more 
distinct  ideas  as  to  what  it  is  ;  we  know  better  how  to  look 
for  it.  Summer  has  for  us  a  new  opulence  and  pride ; 
Autumn,  which  is  Summer  meeting  death  with  a  smile,  a 
new  solemnity  and  a  more  noble  sadness.  Even  to  Winter 
we  learn  to  look  for  his  part  in  nature's  pageantry,  in 
nature's  orchestral  beauty ;  we  find  a  new  music  in  his 
storms,  a  new  majesty  in  his  cataracts,  a  more  exquisite 
pencilling  in  his  frost-work.  Artists  and  artist-critics  may 
rail  at  Ruskin  as  they  please ;  but  in  order  to  prove  his 
word-painting  a  small  matter,  they  must  prove  that  Riehter's 
most  wonderful  passages  are  mean  achievements,  that  Shel- 
ley and  Wordsworth,  in  their  moments  of  richest  inspiration, 
wrote  what  was  "  more  easy  than  is  supposed,"  and  that 
those  descriptive  passages  which  are  the  masterpieces  of 
Byron  are  of  small  account.  We  do  not  call  Ruskin  a  poet. 
The  name,  we  hold,  cannot  be  claimed  unless  the  distinctive 
form  of  poetry,  the  metrical,  has  been  adhered  to.  But  in 
the  elements  of  descriptive  power,  which  underlie  the  garb, 
either  of  prose  or  verse,  we  have  no  hesitation  in  declaring 
that,  with  the  exception  of  one  or  two  of  Byron's  highest 
efforts,  such  as  his  description  of  the  storm  in  the,  Alps,  the 


JOHN    RUSKIN.  303 

boasted  and  magnificent  descriptions  of  that  poet  are 
decidedly  inferior  to  those  of  Ruskin.  Such  a  series  of 
descriptions,  indeed,  as  Ruskin's,  does  not,  in  prose  or 
verse,  exist  in  the  English  language,  or,  we  are  assured,  in 
any  other.  The  value  of  Ruskin's  Art-criticism,  we  have 
yet  to  determine  :  but  it  at  least  must  be  conceded,  that  he 
who  has  added  to  our  knowledge  of  nature,  to  an  extent 
which  would  have  given  him  high  standing  as  a  man  of 
science,  and  who  has  irradiated  nature  by  his  imaginative 
power,  in  a  manner  which  entitles  him,  in  all  but  the  form 
of  his  works,  to  take  rank  with  the  greatest  descriptive 
poets  that  ever  lived,  is  a  man  of  rare  and  precious  genius. 

But  it  is  time  that  we  left  this  wider  field,  and  addressed, 
ourselves  to  the  strict  inquiry,  how  the  marvellous  natural!  \ 
sensibility  of  Ruskin  has  availed  him  in  treating  of  the  I 
theory  and  practice  of  Art.     We  shall  confine  ourselves,  I 
almost   entirely,   to   an   investigation  of   his  opinions   on 
painting. 

There  are  two  points  of  view,  by  taking  which  succes- 
sively, it  will  be  possible  to  obtain  a  fair  and  dispassionate 
idea  of  Ruskin's  opinions  on  pictorial  Art.  The  first  is  by 
considering  his  great  work,  Modern  Painters;  the  second, 
by  glancing  generally  at  the  way  he  has  applied  his  princi- 
ples to  the  criticism  of  individual  artists  and  schools. 

It  is  of  importance,  particularly  in  view  of  the  assaults 
which  have  been  made  upon  Ruskin  as  an  Art-critic,  that 
we  exhibit  his  fundamental  ideas,  as  little  as  may  be  in  our 
words,  and  as  much  as  our  limits  permit  in  his. 

In  the  very  outset  of  Ruskin's  first  volume,  we  find  him 
speaking  thus :  — 

""Painting,  or  Art  generally,  as  such,  with  all  its  techni- 
calities, difficulties,  and  particular  ends,  is  nothing  but  a 
noble  and  expressive  language,  invaluable  as  the  vehicle  of 


304  JOHN    RUSKIN. 

thought,  but  by  itself  nothing.  He  who  has  learned  what 
is  commonly  considered  the  whole  art  of  painting,  that  is, 
the  art  of  representing  any  natural  object  faithfully,  has  as 
yet  only  learned  the  language  by  which  his  thoughts  are  to 
be  expressed.  He  has  done  just  as  much  towards  being 
that  which  we  ought  to  respect  as  a  great  painter,  as  a 
man  who  has  learned  how  to  express  himself  grammati- 
cally and  melodiously  has  towards  being  a  great  poet. 
The  language  is,  indeed,  more  difficult  of  acquirement  in 
the  one  case  than  in  the  other,  and  possesses  more  power 
of  delighting  the  sense,  while  it  speaks  to  the  intellect ; 
but  it  is,  nevertheless,  nothing  more  than  language,  and 
all  those  excellences  which  are  peculiar  to  the  painter  as 
such,  are  merely  what  rhythm,  melody,  precision,  and  force 
are  in  the  words  of  the  orator  and  the  poet,  necessary  to 
their  greatness,  but  not  the  tests  of  their  greatness.  It 
is  not  by  the  mode  of  representing,  and  saying,  but  by 
what  is  represented  and  said,  that  the  respective  greatness 
either  of  the  painter  or  the  writer  is  to  be  finally  deter- 
mined." 

The  nature  of  Ruskin's  system  of  criticism  will  mani- 
festly depend  upon  the  meaning  he  attaches  to  the  "thought" 
and  the  "language"  here  spoken  of.  It  is  indispensable, 
therefore,  to  ascertain  that  meaning  with  certainty  and  pre- 
cision. The  illustration  by  which  the  author  explains  the 
passage  is  first  of  all  worthy  of  attention. 

"  Take,  for  instance,  one  of  the  most  perfect  poems  or 
pictures  (I  use  the  word  as  synonymous)  which  modern 
times  have  seen:  — the  'Old  Shepherd's  Chief-mourner.' 
Here  the  exquisite  execution  of  the  glossy  and  crisp  hair 
of  the  dog.  the  bright  sharp  touching  of  the  green  bough 
beside  it,  the  clear  painting  of  the  wood  of  the  coffin  and 
the  folds  of  the  blanket,  are  language — language  clear  and 


JOHN    RU SKIN.  305 

expressive  in  the  highest  degree.  But  the  close  pressure 
of  the  dog's  breast  against  the  wood,  the  convulsive  cling- 
ing of  the  paws,  which  has  dragged  the  blanket  off  the 
trestle,  the  total  powerlessness  of  the  head  laid  close  and 
motionless,  upon  its  folds,  the  fixed  and  tearful  fall  of  the 
eye  in  its  utter  hopelessness,  the  rigidity  of  repose  which 
marks  that  there  has  been  no  motion  nor  change  in  the 
trance  of  agony  since  the  last  blow  was  struck  on  the 
coffin  lid,  the  quietness  and  gloom  of  the  chamber,  the 
spectacles  marking  the  place  where  the  Bible  was  last 
closed,  indicating  how  lonely  has  been  the  life  —  how 
un watched  the  departure,  of  him  who  is  now  laid  solitary 
in  his  sleep ;  —  these  are  all  thoughts,  —  thoughts  by  which 
the  picture  is  separated  at  once  from  hundreds  of  equal 
merit,  as  far  as  mere  painting  goes,  by  which  it  ranks  as 
a  work  of  high  art,  and  stamps  its  author,  not  as  the  neat 
imitator  of  the  texture  of  a  skin,  or  the  fold  of  a  drapery, 
but  as  the  Man  of  Mind." 

It  is  just  possible  that  one  might  be  so  ignorant  of  the 
nature  and  philosophy  of  language,  as  to  mistake  the  mean- 
ing of  this  explicit  and  satisfactory  passage.  There  may  be 
men,  and  they  may  even  write  in  the  Quarterly,  who  can 
find  something  to  bewilder  them  in  the  description  of  the 
"wood  of  the  coffin  and  of  the  folds  of  the  blanket"  as 
"  language  —  language  clear  and  expressive  in  the  highest 
degree,"  and  who  can  evince  their  astonishment  by  inquir- 
ing "  what,  after  all,  does  such  painting  express,  but  hair, 
wood,  and  wool?"  But  it  is  not  necessary  to  suppose  men 
in  general  unable  to  perceive,  that  it  is  just  this  fact  of 
their  being  hair,  wood,  and  wool,  in  visible,  pictorial  rep- 
resentation, and  not  the  alphabetical  characters  which  are 
used  to  express  these  things,  by  cultivated  reviewers,  that 
makes  them  a  language.     "Were  the  daguerreotype  to  be 

perfected   so  as   to  give  the   color   as  well  as  the  form 
26* 


306  JOHN   RUSKIN. 

of  nature,  it  would  render  nature's  language  perfectly. 
It  could  not,  of  course,,  do  so,  without  giving  nature's 
meaning  too,  whether  deep  and  solemn,  as  in  mountain 
scenery,  commonplace,  as  in  a  street,  or  trivial,  as  in  a 
heap  of  rubbish  or  a  Dutch  kitchen.  But  only  in  its  ap- 
plication by  mind,  in  its  application  to  nature's  scenes  of 
exceeding  grandeur,  or  to  passages  of  human  history  of 
pathos  and  significance,  could  it  produce  pictures  really 
great,  full  of  meaning  and  thought.  A  perfect  daguerreo- 
type would  render  a  barber's  shop  or  haystack,  as  well  as 
a  mountain  gorge  lit  by  its  cataract,  or  an  army  reposing 
under  the  sinking  sun  after  a  hard-fought  day.  The  lan- 
guage in  each  of  these  cases  would  be  alike  faultless ;  and 
if  an  erudite  critic  were  to  slip  into  the  assertion  that  the 
language  of  painting  "  is  in  itself  everything ',"  he  would 
have  slipped  into  the  declaration  that  the  two  former  pic- 
tures would  be  as  noble  as  the  two  latter.  Even  with 
your  perfect  daguerreotype  you  must  know  how  to  apply 
it  before  you  have  valuable  pictures ;  and  even  its  best 
application  would  not  give  the  highest  Art ;  nay,  the  mind 
of  a  great  painter  will  do,  without  a  daguerreotype,  whati 
a  man  of  no  genius  could  never  do  with  it. 

But  there  is  another  point  which  this  illustration  makes 
clear.  If  it  were  the  duty  of  a  critic,  professing  to  stand 
between  the  public  and  an  author,  and  to  declare  plainly 
and  honestly  what  the  latter  means,  to  fix  upon  a  word, 
and  attempt,  with  it,  to  nail  his  author  down  to  a  certain 
meaning  or  no-meaning,  there  might  be  defence  set  up  for 
one  who,  settling  on  the  word  "  thought,"  in  the  first  of 
the  passages  just  quoted,  should  "glance  at  the  different 
fields  of  thought  —  moral,  speculative,  theoretic,  poetic, 
epigrammatic,"*  and  so  lead  himself  and  his  readers  a 

*  Quarterly  Review :  March,  1856. 


JOHN   RUSKIN.  307 

ludicrous  wild-goose  chase  in  quest  of  the  meaning  of 
Buskin.  But  if  the  duty  of  one  who  comes  between  the 
public  and  an  author  is  precisely  the  reverse  of  this,  how 
can  any  apology  be  offered  for  the  man  who,  so  coming, 
should  put  aside  the  simple  and  intentional  explanation  of 
Ruskin's  meaning  in  the  use  of  tne  word,  which  his  illus- 
tration affords.  The  thoughts  pointed  out  by  him  in 
Landseer's  picture  might  be  called  facts,  truths,  touches 
of  sentiment,  proofs  of  observation  or  reflection,  and  so  on. 
It  is  at  least  plain  that  if  you  inquire  only  after  what 
precisely  occupies  "  the  thinking  faculty,"  you  will  be  led 
unpardonably  as  well  as  hopelessly  astray.  In  the  very 
quotation  in  which  the  word  "thought"  occurs,  as  that  of 
which  the  painter's  language  is  the  vehicle,  the  expression 
"  what  is  represented  and  said,"  is  used  as  precisely  equiva- 
lent. What  if  a  critic  seized  the  former  and  refused  to 
look  at  the  latter  ? 

But  there  is  more  still  to  be  said  on  this  point.  Raskin 
is  a  somewhat  voluminous  writer,  and  it  might  be  fair, 
always  supposing  that  you  did  not  wish  to  gratify  a  pitiable 
malignity  but  to  perform  a  duty  to  the  public,  to  proceed 
beyond  one  or  two  of  his  pages,  and  endeavor  to  discover 
whether  subsequent  declarations  do  not  cast  light  upon 
those  previously  made.  The  previous  quotations  are  im- 
portant to  an  intelligence  of  Ruskin's  meaning,  but  the 
following,  and  one  or  two  others,  are  also  of  essential 
moment.     He  thus  defines  greatness  in  pictures :  — • 

"  The  greatest  picture  is  that  which  conveys  to  the  mind 
of  the  spectator  the  greatest  number  of  the  greatest  ideas." 
This  expression  is  met  witlfln  the  same  important  initiatory 
chapter  from  which  we  made  the  former  quotations.  It  Is" 
difficult  to  imagine  a  mistake  as  to  the  identity  of  meaning 
between  the  words  "thought"  in  the  one  case,  and  "ideas" 
in  the  other.      And  if  the  author  had  first  categorically 


3J8    '  JOHN    RUSKIN. 

stated  what  the  ideas  which  he  looked  for  in  pictures  were, 
and  then  devoted  two  volumes  to  the  detailed  illustration 
and  exposition  of  them,  would  not  a  distinguished  re- 
viewer look  very  foolishly  pompous,  in  taking  that  sublime 
"  glance  at  the  different  fields  of  thought  —  moral,  specula- 
tive, theoretic,  poetic,  epigrammatic,"  when,  all  the  time, 
the  information  needed  lay  at  his  feet  ?  The  distinguished 
reviewer,  endangering  the  stars  with  his  sublime  head, 
would,  we  imagine,  have  fallen  into  a  well !  The  question 
is  one  of  simple  fact.  If  what  we  state  can  be  proved  in 
Ruskin' s  words,  surely  the  reviewer's  position  is  some- 
what ridiculous,  surely  his  academic  robes  are  somewhat 
draggled. 

What,  then,  are  the  ideas  which  Mr.  Ruskin  looks  for  in 
Art  ?  It  is  perhaps  unfortunate  that  he  has  used  the  word 
"  number"  in  precisely  the  connection  in  which  it  appears; 
for  it  affords  a  color,  if  no  more,  to  quibbling.  Candid 
criticism,  however,  will  take  it  for  granted,  that  the  ideas 
he  desiderates,  however  numerous,  must,  in  his  view,  com- 
bine in  one  unity.  Where  unity  is  secured,  where  the 
ideas  own  the  sway  of  one  imperial  thought,  it  is  most 
true  that  the  greater  their  number,  the  greater  the  pic- 
ture is. 

Mr.  Ruskin  proceeds  to  classify  his  Ideas  as  follows :  we 
invite  readers  to  consider  whether  the  sentences,  with 
which  he  introduces  the  classification,  are  calculated  to 
mislead  a  candid  critic,  or  to  remove  any  misconception 
which  might  have  been  already  formed. 

"The  definition  of  Art,"  these  are  his  words,  "which  I 
have  just  given  requires  me  to  determine  what  kinds  of 
ideas  can  be  received  from  works  of  Art,  and  which  of 
these  are  the  greatest,  before  proceeding  to  any  practical 
application  of  the  test. 

"  I  think  that  all  the  sources  of  pleasure,  or  of  any  other 


JOHN    BUSKIN.  309 

good,  to  be  derived  from  works  of  Art,  may  be  referred  to 
five  distinct  heads. 

"  I.  Ideas  of  Power.  —  The  perception  or  conception  of 
the  mental  or  bodily  powers  by  which  the  work  has  been 
produced. 

"II.  Ideas  of  Imitation. — The  perception  that  the  thing 
produced  resembles  something  else. 

"III.  Ideas  of  Truth. — The  perception  of  faithfulness  in 
a  statement  of  facts  by  the  thing  produced. 

"  IV.  Idea3  of  Beauty.  —  The  perception  of  beauty, 
either  in  the  thing  produced,  or  in  what  it  suggests  or 
resembles. 

"  V.  Ideas  of  Relation.  —  The  perception  of  intellectual 
relations  in  the  thing  produced,  or  in  what  it  suggests  or 
resembles." 

It  may  be  maintained  that  certain  of  these  classes  might 
be  merged  in  each  other,  and  a  different  mode  of  statement 
might  by  some  be  desired.  But  we  think  that  if  any  one 
deliberately  and  Carefully  peruses  the  volumes,  in  which 
Mr.  Ruskin  has,  so  far,  explained  and  illustrated  the  cate- 
gory, he  can  hardly  fail  to  acknowledge  that  it  is  radically 
correct,  and  that  it  furnishes  the  groundwork  of  a  complete 
system  of  Art-criticism.  The  first  class  is  one  with  which 
all  are  familiar,  who  have  the  slightest  acquaintance  with 
critical  opinion,  or  who  have  at  all  reflected  on  the  mode  in 
which  the  efforts  of  man  are  pleasing  to  his  fellows.  The 
secorfd  and  third  classes  might  not,  perhaps,  have  been 
kept  asunder,  but  represented  as  differing  rather  in  rela-* 
tion  of  degree,  in  inferiority  or  superiority,  than  in  essential 
nature.  The  difference,  however,  as  Mr.  Ruskin  explains 
it,  is  by  no  means  shadowy,  the  delight  in  imitation  being 
confined  to  the  mere  pleasant  illusion  of  the  senses,  while  the 
delight  in  truth  can  extend  to  the  most  sublime  facts,  both 


310  JOHN     RTJSKIN. 

of  physical  nature  and  of  human  feeling.  To  the  discus- 
sion of  the  Ideas  of  Beauty,  the  whole  of  the  second 
volume  of  Modern  Painters  is,  more  or  less  directly,  de- 
voted. The  Ideas  of  Relation  comprehend  "  all  those  con- 
veyable  by  Art,  which  are  the  subjects  of  distinct  intellec- 
tual perception  and  action,  and  which  are  therefore  worthy 
of  the  name  of  thoughts."  "  Under  this  head,"  we  are 
informed  further,  "must  be  arranged  everything  produc- 
tive of  expression,  sentiment,  and  character,  whether  in 
figures  or  landscaj^es,"  and  it  especially  includes  the  high- 
est human  interest. 

It  must  be  carefully  noticed  that  the  part  of  the  whole 
work,  Modem  Painters,  in  which  the  Ideas  of  Relation 
would  have  come  to  be  discussed  and  illustrated,  has  not 
yet  appeared,  and  may  perhaps  never  appear.  After  a 
comparatively  brief  investigation  of  the  Ideas  of  Power 
and  of  Imitation,  the  whole  of  the  first  volume  was  de- 
voted to  the  Ideas  of  Truth.  In  this  portion  of  the  work 
was  displayed  that  marvellous  acquaintance  with  the  facts 
of  nature,  of  which  we  have  already  spoken.  After  the 
Ideas  of  Truth  came  the  Ideas  of  Beauty,  constituting 
Part  III.,  and  theoretically  treated  of  in  the  second  vol- 
ume. In  it  is  drawn  out  that  noble  theory,  which  affirms, 
of  all  inherent  beauty,  that  it  is  typical  of  the  Divine  attri- 
butes ;  a  theory  of  which  the  metaphysical  profundity  may 
be  found  to  be  as  remarkable,  as  the  celestial  purity  of 
religious  feeling,  and  the  mellow  splendor  of  eloquence, 
with  which  it  is  explained.  Then  there  was  a  pause 
The  symmetrical  completion  of  the  work  required  eithei 
that  the  manifestation  of  the  Ideas  of  "Beauty,  in  Art  and 
in  nature,  should  be  traced,  with  a  fullness  corresponding 
to  that  with  which  the  Ideas  of  Truth  had  been  exhibited, 
— a  proceeding,  we  suspect,  anticipated  in  the  first  volume, 


JOHN    RUSK  IN.  311 

—  or  that  the  Ideas  of  Relation  should  be  at  once  taken 
up.  But  volume  third,  consummate  as  was  the  power  it 
displayed,  proved,  in  relation  to  the  outlined  scheme  of 
the  book,  an  episode.  It  took  up  "  many  things,"  not' 
expressly  the  Ideas  of  Relation.  Nor  has  the  fourth  vol- 
ume returned  to  the  subject.  It  treats  of  "Mountain 
Beauty,"  which  might,  in  great  measure,  be  styled  Moun- 
tain Truth,  and  a  remark  about  "changes"  which  have 
been  permitted  "  in  the  arrangement  of  the  book,"  though 
breaking  the  "  symmetrical  continuation"  of  the  previous 
volumes,  renders  one  apprehensive  that  the  original  plan 
has  been  lost  sight  of,  and  that  the  Ideas  of  Relation  will 
never  be  expressly  taken  up. 

We  confess  that  this  seems  to  us  matter  for  regret.  In 
the  first  place,  Mr.  Ruskin  himself  distinctly  declares  these 
ideas  to  be  the  most  important  with  which  Art  can  be 
conversant.  If  he  neglects  their  formal  treatment,  it  may 
be  very  plausibly  urged  that  he  has  condemned  himself. 
In  the  next  place,  a  thorough  discussion  of  these  ideas,  and 
the  accordance  of  a  due  prominence  to  the  human  interest 
with  which  they  are  conspicuously  allied,  might  remove  a 
charge  which  even  able  and  candid  critics  may  bring  against 
Mr.  Ruskin.  After  the  pretentious  feebleness  of  the  Quar- 
terly, the  insolence  of  the  Edinburgh,,  and  the  baseness  of 
Blackwood,  the  critique  of  Ruskin  which  appeared  in  the 
National  Review  was  refreshing  and  delightful.  The 
writer  perceived  one  half  of  Ruskin's  greatness.  He 
acknowledged  his  unequalled  acquaintance  wkh  nature. 
But  he  denied  him  a  due,  or  at  least  a  correspondent  meas- 
ure of  human  sympathy.  He  honestly  conceived  him  to 
love  trees  and  mountains  better  than  men.  The  mistake, 
indeed,  even  in  the  present  state  of  Ruskin's  works,  could 
hardly  have  failed  to  yield  to  a  sufficiently  careful  examina- 


312  JOHN    RU  SKIN. 

tion.  The  chapter  on  the  functions  of  the  Workman  in 
Art  in  The  Stones  of  Venice,  the  chapter  on  Vital  Beauty 
in  man,  and  that  on  Mountain  Gloom,  both  in  Modern 
Painters,  much  of  the  criticism  in  the  Exhibition  Pamph- 
lets, and  the  whole  tenor,  indicated  in  a  thousand  expres- 
sions, of  Iiis  works,  conclusively  evince  that  his  heart  beats 
with  human  sympathy  as  powerfully,  as  his  senses  are  acute 
in  the  perception  of  beauty.  Had  Ruskin's  energies  been 
early  directed  into  a  different  channel,  he  might  have  been 
a  profound  and  sagacious  writer  on  political  or  social  sub- 
jects. But  such  a  critic  as  the  National  reviewer  could  not 
have  fallen  into  the  mistake  of  supposing  him  open  only  to 
impressions  of  natural  beauty,  if,  in  the  discussion  of  Ideas 
of  Relation,  he  had  balanced  his  treatment  of  natural 
beauty  by  a  proportionate  investigation  of  the  human 
element  in  Art. 

We  are  prevented  by  the  narrowness  of  our  limits,  from 
following  Mr.  Ruskin  in  the  detailed  treatment  of  the 
various  ideas  of  Art.  It  is  hardly  necessary  that  we  should 
do  so.  All  we  have  already  said  of  his  descriptions  of 
natural  appearance  may  be  taken  as  declarative  of  what  he 
has  done  in  discussing  the  Ideas  of  Truth.  His  theory  of 
Beauty,  That,  so  far  as  it  is  inherent,  it  is  typical  of  the 
Divine  attributes,  and,  so  far  as  it  is  not  inherent,  it  consists 
in  felicitous  performance  of  vital  functions,  would  require  a 
separate  critique.  How  the  first  half  of  the  theory  can  be., 
rejected  we  hardly  see,  except  to  suit  an  atheistic  scheme 
of  things.  But  whether  the  elements  of  the  Beautiful  do, 
or  do  not,  typify  the  Divine  attributes,  it  is  at  least  true 
that  suggestion  of  infinity,  that  unity,  repose,  symmetry, 
purity,  and  moderation  are  characteristics  of  beauty  in  Art. 
However,  therefore,  you  may  choose  to  apply  it,  the  classi- 
fication of  these  characteristics  is  neither  vague,  fanciful, 
nor  devoid  of  strict  practical  value. 


JOHN    RUSKIN.  313 

Though  not  professing  to  subscribe  to  every  one  of  Rus- 
kin's  theoretic  opinions,  we  yet  believe  him,  and  think  we 
have  at  least  indicated  grounds  for  believing  him,  a  compre- 
hensive and  scientific  theorist  in  Art.  But  all  theories  are 
in  some  sense  but  moulds  into  which  the  metal  of  fact  is 
run  ;  and  it  is  an  evidence  of  the  preciousness  of  this  metal, 
that  it  can  be  melted  from  its  old  appearance  and  run  into 
new  dyes,  yet  retain  its  inherent  value.  Mr.  Ruskin  was 
gifted  with  the  power  of  seeing  new  truth  in  nature,  and  if 
he  has  given  us  that  truth  he  has  done  a  substantial  work. 
His  theories  may  go,  his  facts  cannot.  Believing  his 
theories  to  stand,  in  the  substance  of  them,  stably  on  facts, 
we  are  satisfied  that  they  too  will  endure.  But  we  have 
still  to  glance  at  him,  engaged  in  the  work  of  practical 
criticism,  when,  his  theories  aside,  he  brings  his  living  force 
to  solve  the  artistic  problems,  to  judge  the  artistic  phenom- 
ena, of  his  time.  Do  we  find  soundness  or  unsoundness, 
consistency  or  inconsistency,  here  ? 

Within  the  compass  of  that  classification  which  we  have 
quoted,  there  was  range  enough  for  diversity,  both  in 
degree,  and  nature,  of  power.  Between  the  ideas  of  imita- 
tion and  the  ideas  of  highest  truth  and  relation,  there  was 
room  for  drudging  accuracy  and  for  poetic  invention.  In 
his  treatment  of  schools  and  artists,  Mr.  Ruskin  has  acted 
in  accordance  with  a  theory  thus  all-embracing.  He  has 
recognized  the  smallest  molehill  of  real  worth :  he  has 
ascended  to  the  Himalayas  of  colossal  power.  Since,  how- 
ever, many  men,  who  feel  angry  if  you  did  not  count  them 
clever,  can  perceive  consistency  in '  the  straightness  of  a 
lamp-post,  but  not  in  the  strong  stem,  dividing  branches, 
and  delicate  foliage  of  a  living  tree,  there  have  been  critics 
without  end  to  pronounce  Ruskin  inconsistent. 

Ruskin's  practical  criticism,  in  its  true  nature  and  essen- 

FIRST   SERIES.  27 


314  JOHN    RUSKIN. 

tial  consistency,  can  be  amply  and  pointedly  illustrated, 
by  a  single  antithetic  illustration:  his  opinion  of  Turner 
in  contrast  or  coincidence  with  his  opinion  of  the  pre- 
Raphaelites. 

Within  the  first  thirty  pages  which  Ruskin  ever  gave 
to  the  world,  marked  applause  was  accorded  to  a  piece 
of  pure  idealization,  a  touch  of  highest  poetry,  from 
the  pencil  of  Turner.  In  the  fourth  volume  of  Modem 
Painters,  large  space  is  devoted  to  a  consideration  of 
the  distinctively  poetic,  the  creative,  imagination,  of  that 
painter.  The  imaginative  power,  which  summons  before 
the  eye  of  its  possessor,  as  if  in  vision  or  dream,  forms  and 
colors  having  no  actual  existence,  but  combining  in  a 
beauty  higher  than  that  of  external  nature,  is  there  dis- 
tinctly contemplated ;  an  attempt  even  is  made,  —  no  one 
but  Ruskin  could  have  dared  it,  —  to  enter,  if  we  may  so 
speak,  the  chambers  of  Turner's  mind,  and  to  watch  his 
conceptions  coming  together.  Explicit  acknowledgment 
is  thus  made,  of  the  reality  of  the  highest  imaginative 
exertion,  and  it  is  set  in  the  seat  of  supreme  artistic  honor. 
You  must  state  facts  very  minutely  in  order  to  meet  such 
critics  as  Ruskin's ;  else  why  should  we  make  these  refer- 
ences at  all  ?  Is  not  Ruskin  most  of  all  distinguished  as 
the  expositor  and  eulogist  of  Turner,  and  is  not  Turner 
the  greatest  landscape  poet  that  ever  used  a  brush  ?  No 
painter  ever  so  daringly  magnified  nature's  forms,  none 
ever  arranged  them  anew  so  superbly  in  novel  combina- 
tions, as  Turner.  It  is  evident,  therefore,  that  Ruskin 
acknowledges,  and  with  emphasis,  that  highest  excellence 
in  Art,  which  we  may  variously  designate  as  the  poetic,  the 
ideal,  the  creative.  ^^ 

Shortly  after  the  appearance  of  the  first  volume  of 
Modem  Painters,  there  began  to  attract  attention  a  re- 


JOHN    RUSKIN.  315 

markable  and  original  school  of  painting.  It  obtained  the 
name  of  the  pre-Raphaelite  school,  from  professing  the 
belief,  that  a  pernicious  conventionalism  in  Art  dated  from 
the  time  of  Raphael.  On  its  banner,  it  inscribed  the 
word,  Nature.  The  most  conspicuous  characteristic  of  its 
handling  was  a  daring,  uncompromising  realism,  and  the 
most  relentless  of  its  realists  was  Everard  Millais.  The 
newspaper  wits  were  in  a  state  of  excitement  and  com- 
motion. The  young  painters  were  pronounced  a  set  of 
miserable  imitators,  who  could  do  nothing  better  than 
trace  cracks  in  brick  walls,  make  you  believe  you  saw  a 
bundle  of  hay  within  a  picture  frame,  and  perform  despi- 
cable little  bits  of  trickery  with  feathers  and  hairs.  The 
general  public  was  offended  and  repelled.  The  broad  and 
distant  horizon,  the  free  sunlight,  the  pleasing  sweeps  of 
©loud,  the  balanced  masses  of  foliage,  the  regulated  har- 
mony of  color,  all  of  which  had  been  confidently  looked  for 
in  a  picture,  were,  in  the  pre-Raphaelite  paintings,  looked 
forirrvain.  The  brethren  would  give  you  only  what  they 
could  see,  so  closely  and  so  continuously,  that  they  could 
paint  it  line  by  line  and  tint  by  tint.  No  flowing  cloud, 
no  undulating  horizon,  no  breadth  of  woodland,  had  you 
here.  You  were  compelled  to  cramp  yourself  into  the 
corner  of  a  room,  to  concentrate  your  attention  on  briars 
and  twining  roots  in  the  smallest  nook  of  the  dell,  to  be 
happy  if  you  got  a  bit  of  garden  wall  with  the  least  pos- 
sible modicum,  straight,  level,  uninteresting,  of  cloud. 
All  this  was  intolerable.  But  one  thing  seemed  clear :  — 
Ruskin,  the  unbounded  admirer  of  Turner,  the  exultant 
defender  of  him  who  gave  more  of  sky  and  horizon  than 
any  painter  known  to  Art,  would  join  the  public  and  the 
connoisseurs,  in  scourging  these  presumptuous  youths  into 
summary  oblivion.     Such,  as  we  trust  it  is  not  unbecoming 


Slu  JOHN    RUSKIN. 

to  state,  were  precisely  our  own  first  impressions  as  to  the 
relation  which  must  subsist  between  Ruskin  and  the  pre- 
Raphaelites.  We  were  fresh  from  Modem  Painters,  and 
the  intense  gratification  the  work  had  afforded  to  our  love 
of  nature  had  inspired  us  with  ardor  in  the  study  of  Art. 
With  its  exaltation  of  poetic  thought  over  skilful  execu- 
tion, we  had  heartily  sympathized.  Cordially,  if  not  very 
intelligently,  had  we  agreed  that  the  Flemish  school  might 
be  "left  in  peace  to  count  the  spicula  of  haystacks  and 
the  hairs  of  donkeys."  With  unfeigned  astonishment  and 
perplexity,  we  heard  that  Ruskin  defended  the  pre-Rapha- 
elites.  We  were  at  fault.  If  Ruskin  admired  bareness, 
narrowness,  ugliness,  we  thought  we  must  have  strangely 
misapprehended  his  words.  The  simple  and  honest  course 
to  pursue  was,  to  read  Mr.  Ruskin's  own  pamphlet  on  the 
subject.  We  did  so:  and  had  not  proceeded  far  when 
we  perceived,  that  our  perplexity  originated  in  partial 
knowledge  of  Ruskin,  and  in  still  more  partial  knowledge 
of  the  pre-Raphaelites.  All  that  particularly  offended  us 
in  the  pictures  of  the  latter  was,  in  itself,  displeasing  to 
Ruskin.  For  narrowness,  littleness,  ugliness,  in  themselves, 
he  had  no  defence.  But  beneath  all  these,  he  discerned  a 
i  devotion,  not  selfish,  not  conceited,  but  pure  and  manly,  to 
(/nature.  He  saw  that  the  dexterities  of  the  pre-Raphaelites 
were  not  performed  for  their  own  sakes,  but  in  determined 
adherence  to  fact.  He  saw  that  the  brothers  were  on  the 
right  way,  and  he  proclaimed  it.  He  met  our  every  objec- 
tion in  a  manner  more  precise  and  explicit  than  we  could 
have  pointed  out,  by  bringing  together  and  comparing 
Turner  and  Millais.  In  the  one,  there  was  the  eye  of  an 
eagle  and  the  soul  of  a  poet ;  the  other  had  an  eye  like  a 
microscope  and  cultivated  unflinching  realism :  but  both,  as 
students  of  Art,  sat  at  the  feet  of  Nature.  The  pre-Rapha- 


JOHN    RUSKIN.  317 

elites,  Ruskin  distinctly  asserted,  were  yet  but  scholars. 
They  were  parted  from  Turner  by  a  lifetime  of  study, 
such  as  few  men  ever  had  passed  through,  and  by  pos- 
session of  genius,  such  as  appears  once  in  ages :  but  where 
Turner  had  learned  his  highest  lessons,  they  had  also  gone 
to  learn.  It  was  plain  that  Ruskin  was  perfectly  consist- 
ent ;  and  a  more  accurate  acquaintance  with  pre-Raphaelite 
principles,  aided  by  a  more  careful  consideration  of  Rus- 
kin's  words,  could  hardly  have  failed,  even  without  his 
own  explanation,  to  exhibit  that  consistency.  For,  in  the 
first  volume  of  Modem  Painters,  occurred  the  following 
passage.  As  one  peruses  it  he  cannot  help  asking  in  amaze- 
ment, why,  whenever  Ruskin  addresses  young  painters, 
young  whether  in  years  or  in  faculty,  he  is  assailed  as  if  he 
were  addressing  old,  and  why,  whenever  he  praises  the 
works  of  genius  fully  developed,  he  is  accused  of  inconsis- 
tency for  not  similarly  praising  the  works  of  beginners. 

"  From  young  artists,"  said  Ruskin  long  ago,  "  nothing 
ought  to  be  tolerated  but  simple  bona  fide  imitation  of 
nature.  They  have  no  business  to  ape  the  execution  of 
masters  ;  to  utter  weak  and  disjointed  repetitions  of  other 
men's  words,  and  mimic  the  gestures  of  the  preacher,  with- 
out understanding  his  meaning  or  sharing  in  his  emotions. 
We  do  not  want  their  crude  ideas  of  composition,  their 
unformed  conceptions  of  the  Beautiful,  their  unsystema- 
tized experiments  upon  the  sublime.  "We  scorn  their  ve- 
locity; for  it  is  without  direction:  we  reject  their  decision; 
for  it  is  without  grounds :  we  contemn  their  composition  ; 
for  it  is  without  materials  :  we  reprobate  their  choice  ;  for 
it  is  without  comparison.  Their  duty  is  neither  to  choose, 
nor  compose,  nor  imagine,  nor  experimentalize ;  but  to  be 
humble  and  earnest  in  following  the  steps  of  nature,  and 
tracing  the  finger  of  God.  Nothing  is  so  bad  a  symptom, 
27* 


318  JOHN    RUSKIN. 

in  the  work  of  young  artists,  as  too  much  dexterity  of 
handling ;  for  it  is  a  sign  that  they  are  satisfied  with  their 
work,  and  have  tried  to  do  nothing  more  than  they  were 
able  to  do.  Their  work  should  be  full  of  failures;  for 
these  are  the  signs  of  efforts.  They  should  keep  to  quiet 
colors,  grays  and  browns ;  and,  making  the  earlier  works 
of  Turner  their  example,  as  his  latest  are  to  be  their  object 
and  emulation,  should  go  to  nature  with  all  singleness  of 
heart,  and  walk  with  her  laboriously  and  trustingly,  having 
no  other  thoughts  but  how  best  to  penetrate  her  meaning, 
and  remember  her  instruction ;  rejecting  nothing,  selecting 
nothing,  and  scorning  nothing ;  believing  all  things  to  be 
right  and  good,  and  rejoicing  always  in  the  truth.  Then, 
when  their  memories  are  stored,  and  their  imaginations 
fed,  and  their  hands  firm,  let  them  take  up  the  scarlet 
and  the  gold,  give  the  reins  to  their  fancy,  and  show  us 
what  their  heads  are  made  of.  We  will  follow  them  wher- 
ever they  choose  to  lead ;  we  will  check  at  nothing ;  they 
are  then  our  masters,  and  are  fit  to  be  so.  They  have 
placed  themselves  above  our  criticism,  and  we  will  listen 
to  their  words  in  all  faith  and  humility;  but  not  unless 
they  themselves  have  before  bowed,  in  the  same  submission, 
to  a  higher  Authority  and  Master." 

I  The  man  who  thus  recognizes  every  order  of  excellence, 
from  Turnerism  to  pre-Raphaelitism,  must  be  substantially 
sound  as  a  critic  of  Art.  As  we  listen  to  his  commendations 
of  realism,  we  have  only  to  inquire  whether,  as  an  Art- 
education,  nature  ought  to  be  paramount  or  not  ?  It  need 
scarcely  be  added,  that,  though  Ruskin  denounces  artistic 
slavery  to  any  master,  his  whole  exposition  and  vindication 
of  Turner  evince  that  he  can  joyfully  learn  from  all  masters, 
so  far  as  they  are  interpreters  of  nature,  or  exhibit  true 
thought  and  emotion.     He  will  gladly  take  the  hand  of 


JOHN    BUSKIN.  319 

Raphael  to  lead  him  to  those  fields  of  study  where  Raphael 
learned  to  be  what  he  was;  he  will  earnestly  strive  to 
enter  into  the  moods  of  mind  in  which  Raphael  conceived 
or  executed :  but  he  will  not  stand  close  up  to  the  canvas 
of  Raphael,  letting  it  shut  out  the  light  of  heaven  and  the 
loveliness  of  earth,  and  steal  from  him  the  thoughts  and 
facts  which  nature  gave  to  him  alone. 

Has  Ruskin's  criticism  of  individual  artists,  pre-Raphaelite 
or  other,  corresponded  with  the  view  we  have  just  taken, 
the  facts  we  have  just  adduced?  Has  he  neglected  to 
inform  the  pre-Raphaelites  of  their  failings,  to  shake  them 
out  of  their  crotchets?  Has  he  shunned  to  make  such  a 
remark  as  that  the  painting  of  truthful  ugliness  is  the 
"  Nemesis  of  pre-Raphaelitism,"  indefensible  in  itself,  though 
to  be  laid  at  the  door  of  those  who  goaded  the  pre-Raphael- 
ites into  fractiousness  ?  Has  he  refused  to  acknowledge 
diverse  excellence,  to  turn  from  the  crystal  transparency, 
and  outline  sharp  as  a  knife-edge,  of  John  Lewis,  to  the 
pouring  skies  and  matted  herbage  of  David  Cox,  bestow- 
ing words  of  ardent  commendation  on  both?  Has  he 
overlooked  the  tender  feeling  hiding  behind  imperfect 
execution  in  the  pictures  of  Hook,  because  he  prizes  the 
rugged  facts  of  Millais  ?  He  does  not  praise  now  as  he 
praised  Turner :  he  waits  until  a  Turner  rise. 

The  Dutch  school  may  deserve  one  other  word.  Mr. 
Ruskin's  willingness  to  consign  all  its  productions  to  an 
auto  dafe  looks  at  first  singular.  Were  the  expressions  he 
has  used  regarding  it  unqualified  by  the  context  and  by  the 
rest  of  his  works,  they  might  admit  of  no  defence.  The 
Dutch  painters  deserve  deep  respect  as  accurate  narrators 
of  fact,  and  as  honestly  representative  of  a  national  charac- 
ter. But  considered  in  connection  with  the  whole  aim  and 
development  of  Art,  the  Dutch  school  is  without  hesitation 


320  JOHN    RUSKIN. 

/  to  be  condemned.  With  all  his  admiration  for  artistic 
truth,  Ruskin's  Art-instinct  is  far  too  sound  to  permit  him 
to  forget  that  the  end  of  Art  is  beauty,  that  her  eye  is  ever 
upwards.  The  Dutch  artists,  with  the  exceptions  he 
expressly  makes,  Rubens,  Vandyke,  Rembrandt,  rested  in 
their  work.  They  did  not  press  up  and  up,  until  the  light 
of  common  day  paled  in  the  higher  imaginative  radiance 
never  seen  on  sea  or  shore.  The  tendency  of  a  devoted 
study  of  their  works  might  be  to  prevent  artists  from  thus 
perpetually  going  on.  They  were  a  pre-Raphaelite  school 
struck,  at  a  certain  point,  with  blindness.  Had  Ruskin 
wholly  approved  them,  his  admiration  of  pre-Raphaelitism 
would  have  been  a  sanction  of  its  crudities,  not  a  hope  for 
its  perfection,  and  his  praise  of  Turner,  not  the  pinnacle  of 
/:  a  symmetrical  building,  but  a  contradiction.  Thus,  as  is 
always  the  case,  a  real  consistency  is  most  triumphantly 
vindicated  in  and  through  an  apj>arent  inconsistency. 

One  thing  Ruskin  has  always  condemned  without  quali- 
fication, and,  besides  of  course,  pure  falsehood  and  sloven- 
liness, it  alone :  The  manufacture  of  poetry  in  form  and 
color,  the  production  of  great  pictures  by  conventional 
rules.  No  attempt  to  ape  genius  can  either  escape  or 
propitiate  him  :  a  thousand  academies,  chanting  the  praises 
of  cultured  and  pretentious  mediocrity,  would  not  daunt 
him  in  his  assault  upon  it. 

It  has  been  objected  to  Ruskin,  and,  not  perhaps  so  inap- 
propriately as  may  appear,  by  one  who  proclaims  that  in 
the  application  of  his  intellectual  powers  there  is  "not  one 
single  great  moral  quality,"  that  he  forces  upon  Art  a  moral 
responsibility.  An  unbiassed  consideration  of  Mr.  Ruskin's 
own  words  shows  that  he  demands  of  landscape  Art  what 
he  finds  in  nature,  a  tendency,  namely,  to  awaken  certain 
great  and  elevating  ideas.     A  man  of  religion,  a  Christian, 


JOHN    RUSKIN.  321 

finds  that  all  such  ideas  lead  him  up  towards  his  Father  in 
heaven,  and  Ruskin,  being  thus  led  in  nature,  has  to  deplore 
the  twofold  fact,  that  ancient  Art  does  not  so  lead  him, 
and  that  Art  in  general  has  hitherto  exhibited  no  power  of 
so  leading  men.  He  demands,  in  Art,  earnestness,  simplic- 
ity, truthfulness,  humility,  knowing  that,  when  the  heart 
is  rightly  strung,  it  will,  by  these,  be  turned  in  the  direction 
of  Him  who  is  the  source  of  all  such  good  gifts.  The  idea 
of  turning  all  Art  into  allegory,  or  of  contriving  landscapes 
to  suggest  ethical  doctrines  or  moral  maxims,  would  be  to 
him  as  abhorrent,  as  the  idea  of  graving  wise  saws  on  the 
rocks,  or  pasting  the  trees  with  good  advice  from  the  copy 
books.  Yet  we  should  omit  a  characteristic,  without  a  con- 
sideration of  which  it  is  impossible  to  form  a  comprehension 
of  Ruskin's  mind  and  writings,  if  we  did  not  take  into 
account  his  religious  earnestness,  his  Christian  piety.  Of 
this  he  cannot  divest  himself:  if  Art  required  him  to  divest 
himself  of  it,  he  would  abandon  Art.  Whether  the  reality 
and  depth  of  his  Christianity  have  affected  the  soundness 
of  his  artistic  views,  the  reader  must  now  judge  for  himself. 
There  was  no  reason  why  they  should  have  done  so  and 
they  have  not.  On  the  other  hand,  they  have  led  him  into 
regions  of  pure  and  beautiful  thought,  little  known  to 
critics  ;  they  have  cast  over  his  whole  works  a  softened  yet 
steady-beaming  glory,  a  benign  and  tranquil  splendor; 
they  have  caused  to  break  out,  ever  and  anon,  as  it  were 
tones  of  music,  which  waft  you  gently  upwards,  leaving 
material  beauty  for  spiritual,  the  things  of  earth  for  the 
things  of  heaven.  He  has,  as  we  saw,  shown  that  Poetry 
and  Science,  though  different,  are  Sisters  ;  and  as  he  shows 
them  they  are  looking  towards  God  for  his  light  to  fall 
ujDon  both.  Therefore  it  is  that  the  works  of  Ruskin  stand 
apart  from  all  that  has  ever  been  written  on  Art.     They 


322  JOHN   RUSKIN. 

connect  themselves  with  what  is  greatest  and  holiest  in 
human  duty  and  devotion,  with  what  is  most  solemn  and 
benign  in  the  ways  of  God  to  man.  The  following  passage 
may  illustrate  these  remarks.  The  author  has  been  consid- 
ering the  characteristic  of  repose  in  works  of  Art.  In 
accordance  with  his  uniform  method  of  broadly  human 
treatment,  he  traces  the  nobleness  of  the  quality  in  its 
highest  manifestations : — 

"  But  that  which  in  lifeless  things  ennobles  them  by  seem- 
ing to  indicate  life,  ennobles  higher  creatures  by  indicating 
the  exaltation  of  their  earthly  vitality  into  a  Divine  vitality ; 
and  raising  the  life  of  sense  into  the  life  of  faith :  faith, 
whether  we  receive  it  in  the  sense  of  adherence  to  resolu- 
tion, obedience  to  law,  regardfulness  of  promise,  in  which 
from  all  time  it  has  been  the  test,  as  the  shield  of  the  true 
being  and  life  of  man  ;  or  in  the  still  higher  sense  of  trust- 
fulness in  the  presence,  kindness,  and  word  of  God,  in 
which  form  it  has  been  exhibited  under  the  Christian 
dispensation  ;  for,  whether  in  one  or  other  form  —  whether 
the  faithfulness  of  men  whose  path  is  chosen  and  portion 
fixed,  in  the  following  and  receiving  of  that  path  and  por- 
tion, as  in  the  Thermopylae  camp,  or  the  happier  faithfulness 
of  children  in  the  good  giving  of  their  Father,  and  of 
subjects  in  the  conduct  of  their  King,  as  in  the  c  Stand 
still  and  see  the  salvation  of  God?  of  the  Red  Sea  shore  — 
there  is  rest  and  peacefulness,  the  c  standing  still » in  both, 
the  quietness  of  action  determined,  of  spirit  unalarmed,  of 
expectation  unimpatient :  beautiful  even  when  based  only, 
as  of  old,  on  the  self-command  and  self-possession,  the  per- 
sistent dignity  or  the  uncalculating  love  of  the  creature ; 
but  more  beautiful  yet,  when  the  rest  is  one  of  humility, 
instead  of  pride,  and  the  trust  no  more  in  the  resolution  we 
have  taken,  but  in  the  hand  we  hold." 


JOHN   RUSKIN.  323 

Mr.  Ruskin's  writings  afford  three  or  four  instances  of 
slips  in  reasoning,  so  manifest  and  so  avoidable,  that  they 
seem  intentionally  thrown  in  the  way  of  those  critics  who 
will  always  insist  upon  forming  the  estimate  of  a  field  of 
wheat  from  its  half-dozen  bad  ears.  Thus,  in  one  place,  an 
appeal  on  behalf  of  the  decaying  monuments  of  architec- 
tural Art  is  founded  on  an  analogy  between  wasting  one's 
own  time  and  wasting  that  of  one's  ancestors.  This  is  an 
argument  which  one  cares  not  to  answer.  Logic  is  unneces- 
sary in  the  case  ;  — formal  logic,  indeed,  as  Mr.  Macaulay, 
and  we  suppose  multitudes  before  Mr.  Macaulay,  remarked 
long  ago,  is  not  used  in  the  thinking  operations  of  any 
man  ;  — the  intuitive  sense  of  every  one  simply  rejects  it. 
If,  however,  it  had  to  be  explicitly  shown  to  be  unsound, 
the  task  could  be  performed  in  a  moment.  You  do  not 
waste  your  own  time,  first,  because  it  may  be  turned  to 
account  by  yourself,  because  it  is.  of  value  to  you,  second, 
because  you  are  responsible  for  it.  But  a  dead  man  has 
had  all  the  value  out  of  his  time  that  he  can  have :  and 
death  has  forever  closed  his  account  of  responsibility.  A 
man's  fame  may  be  filched  from  him  after  his  death  ;  but 
would  you  call  destroying  a  man's  renown  synonymous  with 
wasting  his  time  ?  Whether  there  is  any  conceivable  sense 
in  which  a  living  man  can  waste  a  dead  man's  time  is  doubt- 
ful, or  rather  not  doubtful ;  but  no  human  reason,  unless 
nodding,  will  recognize  a  parallel  between  wasting  your 
own  time  when  alive,  and  wasting  your  father's  when  he  is 
dead.  With  the  object  in  furtherance  of  which  Mr.  Ruskin 
adduced  this  strange  argument,  we  cordially  sympathize. 
Again,  in  a  volume  very  recently  published,  Mr.  Ruskin 
declares  his  preference  for  drawing,  as  a  part  of  the  educa- 
tion of  children,  to  writing.  No  one,  he  argues,  can  draw 
without  benefitting  himself  and  his  fellows ;  few  can  write, 


324  JOHN   RUSKIN. 

without  doing  no  good, — if  we  remember  correctly  his  lan- 
guage is  even  stronger,  —  to  either.  Of  the  extreme  useful- 
ness of  drawing,  considered  educationally,  we  are  convinced. 
But  to  compare  it  with  that  art  by  which  human  feeling 
is,  in  absence,  all  communicated,  and  which  must  be 
regarded,  side  by  side  with  reading,  as  one  of  those  great 
pillars  on  which  all  education  rests,  and  to  which  all  educa- 
tion is  secondary,  is  to  propound  an  obvious  paradox. 
Next,  and  here  a  better  show  of  defence  can  be  made,  Mr. 
Ruskin,  immediately  after  declaring  it  "probable"  that  "  the 
critical  and  executive  faculties  are  in  great  part  independent 
of  each  other,"  allows  himself  to  assert,  that  "  a  certain 
power  of  drawing  is  indispensable  to  the  critic  of  Art." 
Had  any  word  but  "indispensable"  been  here  used,  it 
might  have  passed.  But  this  word  puts  in  peril  the  vital 
principle  involved  in  the  very  nature  of  Art,  and  without 
the  clear  acknowledgment  of  which  we  believe  dilettantism 
can  never  be  destroyed  or  even  met,  that  its  effect  is  totally 
independent  of  its  methods  of  production.  It  is  not  an 
easy  thing  to  be  able  to  form  a  correct  judgment  on  works 
of  Art.  The  power  is  in  proportion  to  the  accuracy  and 
width  of  knowledge,  possessed  of  man  and  nature ;  and 
such  knowledge,  if  we  inquire,  is  seldom  either  accurate  or 
wide.  To  give  precision  to  observations  made  by  the 
senses,  the  power  of  drawing  cannot  perhaps  be  exag- 
gerated. But  it  is  only  by  enabling  one  to  know  nature, 
that  drawing  assists  him  in  judging  of  Art.  If  the  faculty 
of  observation  is  naturally  so  acute,  and  has  been  so  heed- 
fully  exercised,  that  it  cannot  be  deceived  as  to  the  form  or 
hue  of  clouds  or  foliage,  as  to  the  aspects  of  passion  or  the 
lines  of  thought,  it  qualifies  its  possessor  to  be  a  critic  in 
Art.  Do  you  require  to  know  the  mysterious  properties  by 
which  the  sunbeams  and  the  metal  produced  the  likeness, 


JOHN   RUSKIN.  325 

in  order  to  say  whether  the  daguerreotype  has  succeeded  in 
rendering  the  features  of  your  friend  ?  To  say  that  one 
must  be  able  to  draw  in  order  to  judge  of  Painting  is  to 
say  that,  in  order  to  judge  of  Poetry,  one  must  not  only  be 
able  to  read,  must  not  only  have  the  power  of  placing  its 
visions  before  his  eyes,  but  must  be  able  to  versify.  A 
fourth  instance  of  inadvertency  is  found  in  Mr.  Ruskin's 
sharp  attack  upon  Macaulay,  for  having,  in  his  essay  upon 
Moore's  Life  of  Byron,  spoken  in  a  sneering  tone  of  the  pic- 
tures of  Paradise  in  old  Bibles.  The  point  which  cannot 
fail  to  strike  every  reader  is,  that  Mr.  Macaulay  did  not  con- 
sider these  pictures  at  all  in  their  symbolic  significance, 
that  he  contrasted  them,  as  delineations  of  an  actual  Para- 
dise, with  delineations  true  to  nature,  and  that,  so  contrast- 
ing them,  he  pronounced  them,  as  Mr.  Ruskin  doubtless 
would,  absurd.  The  circumstance  that  Macaulay  spoke  of 
the  sets  of  pictures  solely  in  illustration,  both  made  it 
legitimate  for  him  to  place  them  in  any  opposition  he  chose, 
and  put  it  out  of  the  question  that  he  should  contemplate 
the  deliberate  condemnation  of  either.  You  may  say  that  a 
bishop's  mitre,  considered  as  a  mere  covering  for  the  head, 
is  absurd  in  comparison  with  a  wide-awake  ;  but  you  would 
not  therefore  speak  disrespectfully  of  the  mitre.  Once 
more,  Mr.  Ruskin  has  assailed,  with  a  violence  the  less  ■ 
defensible  that  it  is  incidental,  "  metaphysicians  and  philos- 
ophers." These  "  are,  on  the  whole,  the  greatest  troubles 
the  world  has  got  to  deal  with."  The  metaphysician  or 
philosopher  is  specially  defined  to  be  "  an  affected  Thinker, 
who  supposes  his  thinking  of  any  other  importance  than  as 
it  tends  to  work."  If  Mr.  Ruskin  will  accept  a  definition 
of  work  in  accordance  with  his  own  noble  doctrine  of 
utility,  laid  down  in  the  commencement  of  the  second 
volume  of  Modem  Painters,  we    shall  agree  with  him  in 

FIRST   SERIES.  28 


JOHN    iiUSKIN. 

denouncing  all  such  persons  as  these.  But  we  have  yet  to 
learn  that  Kant  was  a  less  practical  thinker  than  Plato,  or 
that  Plato  was  less  a  metaphysician  than  Kant ;  while  we 
look  in  vain  for  affected  thinkers  among  the  Fichtes  and 
Hamiltons  of  recent  times.  If  Mr.  Ruskin  had  given  the 
names  of  those  whom  he  advises  prudent  people  to  brush 
out  of  their  way  "  like  spiders,"  we  might  have  agreed  with 
him  or  we  might  not.  But  his  words  will  be  understood  as, 
on  the  whole,  deprecating  the  study  of  metaphysics,  and 
as  such  we  regret  them.  It  would  of  course  be  absurd  to 
enter  here  upon  a  eulogium  or  defence  of  the  most  sublime 
studies,  theology  excepted,  in  which  the  intellect  of  man 
can  be  engaged :  but  why  should  Mr.  Ruskin  thus  gratui- 
tously strive  to  alienate  that  audience,  which,  of  all  others,  is 
most  fitted  to  learn  of  him,  and  of  which  it  is  the  highest 
compliment  that  we  can  pay  him  to  say  that  he  is  worthy 
to  be  the  teacher  ? 

A  few  more  instances  of  unwariness  or  inaccuracy  might 
be  culled  from  Mr.  Ruskin's  works.  But  considering  the 
voluminousness  of  his  writings,  it  is  altogether  absurd  to 
view  them  in  any  other  light  than  that  in  which  we  re- 
gard the  noddings  of  Homer,  or  the  grammatical  and  geo- 
graphical slips  of  Shakspeare.  They  are,  for  one  thing,-- 
utterly  insufficient  to  furnish  an  excuse  for  the  manner  in 
which  critics  have  treated  Ruskin.  We  deliberately  assert 
that  several  of  these  have  earned  the  just  indignation  of 
Ruskin's  audience,  that  is,  of  the  educated  world.  The 
writer  in  the  Quarterly  whose  absolute  blindness  to  the 
whole  meaning  of  Ruskin  in  his  system  of  criticism,  we 
think  we  have  already  shown,  and  who  is  understood  to  be 
no  less  imposing  a  personage  than  Sir  Charles  Eastlake,  not 
only  says  that  his  intellectual  qualities  are  guided  by  no 
moral  principle  whatever,  that  the  truth  of  his  conclusions 


JOHN    RUSKIN.  327 

is  to  him  "  no  object  in  the  process  of  reasoning,"  but  adds 
that  "  his  writings  have  all  the  qualities  of  premature  old 
age  —  its  coldness,  callousness,  and  contraction."  It  is  our 
firm  belief  that  there  is  not,  in  the  whole  range  of  litera- 
ture, an  expression  more  amazing,  more  incomprehensible, 
than  this  last.  "We  do  not  answer  it :  certainly  not.  We 
only  request  readers,  first  to  read  any  volume  or  any  page 
of  Ruskin's,  and  then  to  ponder,  one  by  one,  the  words,  — 
coldness,  —  callousness,  —  contraction, — as  a  description  of 
the  author's  spirit.  But  the  charge  of  want  of  controlling 
principle,  of  regardlessness  of  truth  in  conclusions,  amounts 
to  a  charge  of  utter  falsity  ;  if  our  verdict  is  affirmative,  we 
convict  Mr.  Ruskin  of  being,  not  only  a  scoundrel,  but  a 
scoundrel  of  the  deepest  dye,  at  once  false  and  hypocritical. 
If  all  Mr.  Ruskin  has  ever  alleged  against  living  artists  were 
concentrated  into  one  thunderbolt,  it  would  fall  like  a  rocket 
compared  with  this.  To  make  such  an  accusation  without 
ample  and  indubitable  proof  was  surely  to  run  the  risk  of 
being  excluded  from  all  honorable  society.  And  what  is 
Sir  Charles's  proof?  Why,  in  the  first  place,  we  hear  of 
Ruskin's  "  revilings  of  all  that  is  most  sacred  in  the  past, 
and  his  insults  to  all  who  are  most  sensitive  in  the  present." 
This  about  reviling  the  sacred  past  is,  let  us  plainly  say, 
insufferable  drivel.  Ruskin  feels,  and  has  expressly  said, 
that  the  dead  can  be  pained  by  no  criticism ;  and  it  is  an 
insult  to  common  sense,  to  call  in  question  a  man's  moral 
integrity,  because  he  rubs  the  gilt  from  ancient  names.  As 
for  insults  to  the  living,  the  reference  is,  no  doubt,  chiefly 
to  the  pamphlets  on  the  Academy  Exhibitions.  It  so  hap- 
pens that  we  agree  with  nearly  every  word  of  the  first  of 
these,  which  alone  could  be  charged  with  severity,  and  with 
no  word  of  it  more  cordially,  according  to  our  humble 
capacity,  than  that  which  condemns  Sir  Charles  Eastlake's 


328  JOHN    RUSKIN. 

insipid  and  mawkish  Beatrice.  There  is  nothing  in  the 
pamphlet  which  a  gentleman  might  not  have  written,  and 
which  gentlemen  might  not  accept.  It  may  perhaps  be, 
that  artists  in  general  will  not  thank  the  president,  for 
leading  ns  to  believe,  that  they  all  take  to  whimpering,  when 
Ruskin,  never  casting  a  shadow  of  reflection  on  their  moral 
qualities,  points  boldly  and  bluntly  out  their  artistic  short- 
comings. But  there  is  another  department  of  proof,  by 
which  Sir  Charles  would  establish  Mr.  Ruskin's  complete 
moral  worthlessness.  He  quotes  several  of  those  expressions 
in  which  the  latter  reflects  on  the  want  of  faith  exhibited,  as 
he  believes,  at  the  present  time,  in  the  inanity  of  fashion- 
able amusements,  and  such  things,  and  we  are  to  take  these 
expressions  as  satisfactory  evidence  of  "  malice,  bitterness, 
and  uncharitableness."  Readers  must  refer  to  pp.  405, 406, 
vol.  196,  of  the  Quarterly  Revieio  for  this  extraordinary  pas- 
sage. It  is  Sir  Charles's  last  daring  attempt  to  set  reason, 
sense,  and  even  credibility,  at  defiance.  We  shall  not  ask 
whether  there  may  be  reasons  for  attacking  the  faithless, 
frivolous  and  selfish,  besides  malice,  bitterness  and  uncharit- 
ableness. Nor  is  it  worth  while  to  ask  the  honorable  Sir 
Charles  why  he  has  not  seen  fit  to  quote,  say,  the  appeals 
made  by  Ruskin  on  behalf  of  the  Swiss  peasants,  as  well  as 
the  attacks  on  the  follies  of  London.  But  is  it  not  delight- 
ful to  figure  the  indignation  of  this  virtuous  president, 
against  *two  such  moral  monsters  as  Mr.  Carl yle  and  Mr. 
Thackeray  ?  By  bringing  so  grave  and  definite  a  charge 
against  Mr.  Ruskin,  and  supporting  it  as  he  has  done,  Sir 
Charles  Eastlake  puts  himself  in  a  position  which  few  men 
would  like  to  occupy ! 

The  pert,  penny-a-lining  flippancy,  with  which  the  Edin- 
burgh Review  attacked  Ruskin  might  best  be  treated  with 
silent  contempt.     But  there  is  one  point  in  its  article,  to 


JOHN    RUSKIN.  329 

which  allusion  may  be  made.  The  reviewer  notices  that 
autobiographical  passage  to  which  we  had  occasion  to 
refer ;  and  his  mode  of  noticing  it  is  a  passing  sneer. 
Now  it  admits  of  no  doubt  whatever,  that  the  question 
as  to  how  a  critic's  system  is  connected  with  his  natural 
endowment,  is  always  of  importance ;  and  the  question  is 
in  the  case  of  Ruskin  of  more  express  and  essential  moment 
than  in  any  other.  When  you  clear  away  all  else,  you  find 
that  the  grand,  central  affirmation,  which  he  makes  in  the 
face  of  the  world,  is,  that  he  has  brought  into  view  a 
certain  number  of  the  facts  of  nature.  From  this,  all  his 
teaching  branches  out :  on  this,  all  his  theories  are,  in  one 
sense  or  other,  based.  Take  from  him  the  circumstance 
of  having  made  a  truthful  interpretation,  an  authentic 
revelation,  of  nature,  and  you  take  from  him  everything : 
leave  him  this,  and  it  is,  as  we  said,  impossible,  on  any 
hypothesis,  that  his  system  can  be  destroyed,  save  in  the 
way  in  which  a  sterling  currency  is  destroyed  when  it  is 
re-stamped.  This  being  so,  it  was  of  the  last  importance 
for  the  world  to  know  that  he  had  been  pre-eminently 
fitted,  by  original  endowment,  for  making  observations 
upon  natural  appearance ;  and  to  have  turned  aside,  when 
it  came  directly  in  his  way  to  give  information  on  the 
point,  would  have  been  to  display  an  unmanly  and  effemi- 
nate sensitiveness.  In  the  sneer  of  the  Edinburgh  reviewer, 
therefore,  there  was  a  twofold  insult :  to  the  nation,  whom 
he  pretended  to  instruct :  to  the  man,  whom  he  pretended 
to  understand. 

But  perhaps  neither  Sir  Charles  Eastlake's  downright 
accusation  of  malice,  uncharitableness,  and  regardlessness 
of  truth,  in  one  word,  of  total  reprobacy  and  worthlessness, 
nor  the  piteous  frivolity  of  the  last-mentioned  imbecile,  can 
be  pronounced,  on  the  whole,  so  base  and  beggarly,  as  one 
28* 


330  JOHN    RUSKIN. 

of  the  attacks,  occurring  incidentally  in  a  rambling  kind 
of  article,  made  upon  Ruskin  in  Blackwood.  The  writer 
of  course  discovers  indubitable  inconsistency  in  Ruskin's 
works.  Since,  in  order  to  know  whether  a  system  is  con- 
sistent or  not,  you  must  be  of  sufficient  mental  compass  to 
embrace  it,  as  a  whole,  within  your  sphere  of  intellectual 
vision,  we  should  probably  have  to  make  important  modi- 
fications in  the  view  we  have  presented  of  Ruskin  and  his 
system,  if  critics  of  a  certain  order  did  not  find  both  incon- 
sistent. Having  discovered  his  inconsistency,  the  critic 
proceeds  to  account  for  it.  Here  imitation,  and  the  finish 
resulting  only  in  imitation,  and  both  the  finish  and  the 
imitation  that  end  only  in  themselves,  are  decried;  there 
truth  is  exalted,  and  the  finish  subservient  to  truth  is 
praised.  Over  this  remarkable  contradiction,  the  expert 
critic  brings  his  little  lamp.  He  has  found  it !  Ruskin 
wanted  to  praise  when  he  liked  and  blame  when  he  liked, 
according  as  whim  or  malice  prompted,  and  so  he  put  in 
two  different  rules,  that  he  might  use  the  one  at  one  time 
and  the  other  at  another.  The  fear  and  dread  of  such 
terrible  critics  as  this  small  ebon  dwarf  lay  upon  Ruskin, 
and  so  he  contrived  an  elaborate  trick,  he  uttered  a  deliber- 
ate lie,  that  he  might  have  a  weapon  against  them  in  the 
day  of  battle.  We  hope  it  was  not  Professor  Aytoun  who 
propounded  this  theory.  The  writers  in  Blackwood  toady 
him  so  pitiably,  that  neither  general  rumor,  nor  internal 
evidence,  can  make  you  perfectly  certain  that  an  article  is 
by  him  and  not  an  imitation.  By  discovering  what  a  man 
finds  in  the  character  or  system  of  another,  one  is  led  with 
peculiar  accuracy  to  the  truth  concerning  the  essential 
nature  of  himself.  We  should  experience  a  feeling  of 
strange  and  painful  repulsion  from  the  man,  in  whose  breast 
there  dwelt  a  sympathy,  casting  so  foul  and  dingy  a  light 


JOHN    RUSKIN.  331 

as  this.  We  should  really  not  like  to  be  capable  of  making 
this  discovery  in  connection  with  Raskin.  We  should  fear 
that  there  was  some  baseness,  dark,  deep-lying,  insidious, 
nestling  about  our  heart  and  polluting  all  its  streams.  Such 
a  perception  of  moral  taint  has  surely  in  it  something  of 
recognition!  Professor  Aytoun  is  indeed  no  poet,  except 
so  far  as  is  implied  in  a  certain  command  over  that  mechan- 
ical part  of  poetry,  which  Milton,  speaking  of  Dryden, 
distinguished  as  versification  ;  and  his  character  and  poetry 
seem  on  the  whole  a  very  pertinent  exemplification  of  what 
greatness  is  not.  But  he  has  one  quality,  both  real  and 
precious,  which,  we  shall  hope,  rendered  it  impossible  for 
him  to  find,  in  all  the  enthusiasm  of  feeling  and  glory  of 
description,  exhibited  in  the  works  of  Ruskin,  simply  the 
paraphernalia  of  a  small,  nasty  lie.  Professor  Aytoun 
possesses  a  talent  of  genial  banter,  all  his  own.  It  is  play- 
ful yet  manly,  brilliant  yet  full  of  warm  humor.  If  the 
vein  is  not  so  deep  as  Thackeray's,  we  suspect  it  is  more 
rare.  Thackeray  has  done  nothing  like  The  Raid  of  V 
Pherson.  The  perception  and  appreciation  of  the  two 
aspects  of  Highland  character,  that  of  this  piece  and  that 
of  the  Cavalier  ballads,  shows  a  dramatic  pliancy  and 
amplitude  of  mind  really  fine.  Professor  Aytoun's  banter 
could  not  be  at  present  spared  from  British  literature  ;  it  is' 
unique,  and  we  could  not  supply  its  place.  We  shall  hope 
it  was  not  he  who  arrived  at  this  theory  touching  Ruskin. 

The  whole  phenomenon  of  the  author  of  Modern  Paint- 
ers and  his  critical  assailants,  the  mode  in  which  they 
attack  him  and  the  relation  in  which  they  stand  to  him,  is 
singular  and  anomalous.  About  two  hundred  years  ago, 
the  London  theatres  were  ringing  with  the  applause  of  the 
dramatists  of  the  Restoration.  Pit,  boxes,  gallery,  coffee- 
house, court,  echoed  their  renown.     Meanwhile,  in  obloquy 


332  JOHN    RUSKIN. 

and  obscurity,  John  Milton  was  dictating  Paradise  Lost. 
Deafened  by  the  shouts  in  their  ears,  dazzled  by  the  glare 
of  lamps  and  tinsel,  the  Congreves  and  Wycherlys  knew 
nothing  of  him.  The  dramas  of  the  Restoration  are  fast 
settling  into  that  abyss  of  darkness,  which  swallows  the 
meteors  of  the  night  and  the  glimmering  exhalations  of  the 
fen.  Paradise  Lost  is  rising  higher  and  higher  above  the 
mountain-tops  of  the  world,  still  in  the  morning  of  its  fame. 
Confident  in  the  applause  of  Academies,  strong  in  the 
renown  of  Reviews,  blatant  mediocrity  attempts  to  cry 
down  Ruskin.  But  he  has  told  the  world  new  truth,  and 
the  world  will  do  him  justice  if  he  bide  his  time.  Medi- 
ocrity may  have  it  for  years,  but  not  for  ages. 

And  he  has  not  been  without  his  reward.  He  has  ex- 
tended a  magnificent  patronage  to  those  artists  who  reviled 
him.  That  is  a  reward  which  he  can  appreciate.  Was  not 
Actseon  hunted  by  the  base  hounds  he  fed,  and  that  because 
he,  too,  caught  a  glimpse  of  the  Beautiful  ?  But  there  are 
artists  who  can  appreciate  Ruskin  ;  and  the  pre-Raphaelite 
School,  if  not  his  express  intellectual  progeny,  at  least  con- 
forms to  his  rules.  A  critic  in  the  National  Review,  very 
different  from  those  we  have  noticed,  has  recognized  the 
supremacy  of  his  knowledge  of  nature,  and  may,  by  more 
full  consideration,  learn  that  it  is  the  accidental  manifesta- 
tion, rather  than  the  real  character,  of  his  mind,  which  is 
one-sided.  It  has  been  acknowledged  in  the  Times  that,  let 
artists  say  what  they  will,  he  first  made  the  public  really 
aware  what  a  painter  they  had  in  Turner.  Best  of  all,  the 
young  intellect  of  Great  Britain  has  heard  his  voice,  the 
great  heart  of  the  nation  has  owned  the  might  of  his  genius. 
The  clouds  of  conventionalism,  which  have  brooded  over 
Europe  for  centuries,  have  been  touched  by  his  shafts  of 
light  and  must  gradually  disappear.     He  has  been  a  recon- 


JOHN    RUSKIN.  333 

ciler  between  Art  and  mankind,  leading  Art  into  the  lowly 
paths  of  life,  setting  Art  by  the  household  fire,  and  aston- 
ishing men  by  the  information,  that  the  smile  on  her  face  is 
actually  warm  and  human.  Let  him  not  hear  the  critics ! 
Let  him  not  be  baited  into  indignation  ;  let  him  not  permit 
his  sympathies  to  be  chilled  by  the  companionship  of  con- 
tempt !  Let  him  reveal  those  visions  which  God  has  given 
him  only  to  see  among  the  hills  ;  let  him  tell  us,  as  he  only 
can,  of  the  streams  that  run  among  the  valleys  ;  and  let  him 
leave  to  those  who  have  candidly  read  him,  that  small  vent 
for  their  gratitude,  which  they  may  find  in  answering  his 
critics. 


VI. 

HUGH  MILLER. 

Theke  is  a  great  deal  in  this  rough-hewn,  boisterous,  not 
very  exquisitely  mannered  century,  from  which  the  whole 
class  of  dilettants  and  fine  gentlemen  turn  aside.  There 
has  been  no  age  in  the  world,  and,  until  man  radically 
alters  there  will  be  none,  in  which  the  guinea's  stamp  has 
not  more  or  less  drawn  away  men's  eyes  from  the  real 
gold.  The  nineteenth  century  has  its  own  sycophancies 
and  idolatries,  its  own  Sir  John  Pauls  and  Barnums.  But 
set  fairly  in  comparison  with  other  times,  our  epoch  seems 
to  be  incontrovertibly  distinguished  by  the  scope  it  aifords 
to  real  human  faculty,  and  the  willingness  with  which  it 
recognizes  a  man  when  it  sees  him.  He  has  now  a  poor 
chance  who  places  his  reliance  upon  ribands  and  parch- 
ment. He  puts  himself  in  an  unenviable  position  who 
would  now  presume  himself,  on  the  strength  of  heraldic 
distinctions  and  well-filled  purse,  in  a  position  to  do  honor, 
by  the  expression  of  his  approval,  or  the  bestowal  of  his 
company,  to  the  man  of  genius  who  has  forced  his  way 
from  the  ranks.  Even  within  sixty  years,  a  considerable 
advance  has  been  made  in  this  respect  within  the  British 
Islands.  There  was  something  of  the  luxury  of  a  haughty 
condescension,  not  unmingled  with  self-applause,  in  the  re- 
ception of  Burns  by  Edinburgh  grandiosity  at  the  close  of 


HUGH    MILLER.  335 

last  century.  There  was  a  serene  complacency  in  the  smil- 
ing, as  if  it  were  peculiarly  beautiful  and  praiseworthy  in 
people  so  fine  and  lofty  to  encourage  the  really  entertaining 
and  talented  ploughman.  With  rather  an  effort  of  kind- 
ness, they  patronized  their  king!  Alexander  Smith,  his 
birth  as  humble  as  that  of  Burns,  and  coming  some  sixty 
years  after  him,  finds  a  strong  figure  in  the  loathing  with 
which  he  would  spurn  a  rich  man's  dole,  whether,  doubt- 
less, of  patronage  or  of  pay.  Tennyson,  the  poet  of  the 
most  refined  culture,  sees  that  feudalism  with  all  its  appor- 
tionment of  honor,  has  become  a  joke :  — 

"  Trust  me,  Clara  Vere  de  Vere, 

From  yon  blue  heaven  above  us  bent, 
The  grand  old  gardener  and  his  wife 
Smile  at  the  claims  of  long  descent." 

The  duke  who  would  come  to  confer  distinction  on  Hugh 
Miller,  by  taking  his  hand  and  showing  him  a  little  coun- 
tenance, would  get  himself  simply  covered  with  derision. 
A  man  stands  now  more  solely  and  independently  on  the 
pedestal  of  fiis  individuality,  than  was  ever  the  case  before. 
And  no  man  is  in  this  more  strikingly  representative  of 
his  time  than  he  of  whom  we  here  speak.  What  Hugh 
Miller  is  and  has,  he  owes  entirely  to  himself.  In  the  firm, 
deliberate  planting  of  his  heavy  step,  in  the  quiet,  wide- 
open  determination  of  his  eye,  in  the  unagitated,  unaffected, 
self-relying  dignity  of  his  whole  gait  and  deportment,  you 
behold  the  man  who  feels  that,  whatever  his  origin,  he 
may,  without  pride  or  presumption,  measure  himself  by 
the  standard  of  his  manhood,  and  so  look  every  man,  of 
what  station  soever,  in  the  face. 

Hugh  Miller's  education  may  also  be  pronounced  if  not 
distinctive  of  the  nineteenth  century,  yet  highly  character- 


;j3o  HUGH    MILLER. 

istic  of  it.  Theoretic  education,  the  education  of  letters, 
is  in  his  case  rather  peculiarly  blended  with  the  education 
of  practice.  He  is  one  of  the  strong  men  who,  amid  the 
sternest  toil  of  mechanical  employment,  have  become  ac- 
quainted, and  that  not  cursorily  and  superficially  but  syste- 
matically and  profoundly,  with  those  stores  of  book-knowl- 
edge now  open  to  all,  if  only  they  have  learned  to  read 
and  have  natural  force  not  to  be  daunted  by  difficulty :  yet 
his  character  has  derived  its  brawn  and  sinew  from  prac- 
tice, from  the  rough  jostling  and  wrestling  of  life.  He  has 
all  along  been  a  man  of  action.  Born  of  a  wild,  strong, 
determined  kindred,  who  seem  from  of  old  to  have  lived  a 
life  of  "  sturb  and  strife,"  and  in  a  rank  of  life  just  suffi- 
ciently high  to  save  him  from  knowing  the  pangs  of  want, 
the  world-oyster  was  to  him  very  firmly  closed,  but  he  was 
the  kind  of  man  to  open  it.  Roughing  it  'in  the  quarry  or 
barrack,  seizing  the  brief  intervals  of  labor  to  heap  up 
knowledge  which  a  tenacious  memory  never  lost,  losing 
no  opportunity,  ever  ready  to  sti'ike  occasion  in  its  flight, 
he  suddenly  emerged  into  public  view,  an  expert  literary 
workman,  and  with  store  of  scientific  information,  the  fruit 
of  original  discovery,  sufficient  to  secure  him  a  place  among 
the  first  physical  philosophers  of  his  time.  Too  long  a  stone- 
mason to  be  ever  sleeked  down  into  the  smooth  drawing- 
room  gentleman,  rugged,  shaggy,  burly,  like  a  rough-hewn 
statue  of  old  red  sandstone,  he  was  yet  possessed  of  a  very 
high  intellectual  culture,  familiar  with  the  discussions  which 
have  agitated  philosophical  schools,  intimately  acquainted 
with  his  country's  poetry,  and  master  of  a  style  which 
reminded  one  of  Addison. 

His  school  education  was  meagre.  Through  life,  he  has 
learned  more  by  the  eye  than  by  the  ear,  and  he  did  not 
find  much  to  interest  him  in  the  instructions  of  the  village 


HUGH    MILLER.  337 

pedagogue.  He  commenced  Latin.  But  he  found  nothing 
to  attract  him  in  the  rudiments  of  the  language.  They 
were  exceedingly  dry,  and  he  saw  no  prospect  of  their 
becoming  alive  or  useful.  He  felt  his  eyes  bandaged,  and 
he  would  not  open  his  mouth  to  receive  the  necessary 
though  unpalatable  fare.  He  experienced  precisely  such 
a  craving  for  the  tangible  and  practical,  as  made  Arnold, 
when  a  boy,  refuse  to  master  quantities  and  accents,  and 
turn  from  "words"  to  "things."  But  Arnold  regretted 
his  early  refusal,  and  Miller  has  still  more  reason  to  lament 
his  boyish  aversion  to  Latin.  "We  may  remark  in  passing, 
that  though  it  ought  to  be  the  aim  of  every  teacher  to 
cast,  by  his  skill,  an  interest  over  the  barest  matters,  it  is 
an  indubitable  principle  in  early  education,  that  the  pupil 
should  receive  much  blindfold,  without  either  liking  or  un- 
derstanding it.  Both  for  the  culture  of  faculty,  and  in 
order  to  prepare  a  man  for  the  many  cases  in  life,  in  which 
he  will  have  to  proceed  unfaltering,  when,  for  a  time,  the 
interest  flags,  and  the  result  is  obscure  or  uncertain,  this  is 
a  principle  of  capital  importance. 

The  fact,  however,  was  so,  that  Hugh  Miller  left  school 
without  gaining  even  an  initial  acquaintance  with  the  an- 
cient languages.  It  is  in  perfect  consistence  with  all  which 
can  be  urged  in  honor  of  the  present  and  the  practical,  to 
avow  a  feeling  of  regret  on  account  of  this  circumstance. 
True  it  is,  that  there  exists  a  vast  and  noble  modern  litera- 
ture, and  that  the  man  who  knows  modern  history  and  a 
few  modem  languages,  has  undergone  a  very  valuable  intel- 
lectual training.  Yet  it  is  a  fact,  at  no  time  to  be  forgot- 
ten, that  every  man  is  "heir  of  all  the  ages"  behind  him, 
that,  in  virtue  of  his  intellect,  imagination,  and  sympathy, 
he  may  connect  himself  with  earliest  times,  that  he  may  en- 
rich and  exercise  his  mind  by  a  sympathizing  acquaintance 

FIRST   SERIES.  29 


HUGH    MILLER. 


with  every  form  of  national  and  individual  life,  and  every 
masterpiece  of  mind,  which  the  centuries  behind  him  can 
show.  The  past  may  be  compared  to  a  great,  ever-ascend- 
ing pyramid,  to  which  each  generation  has  added  a  layer 
or  stratum,  and  from  the  top  of  which  each  generation,  as 
it  emerges  into  the  light  of  the  present,  may  see  further 
than  its  predecessor.  Education  is  in  every  age  more  diffi- 
cult than  in  the  preceding.  But  the  reward  increases  in 
exact  proportion  to  the  labor :  the  higher  the  pyramid  to 
be  ascended,  the  wider  the  prospect  to  be  obtained.  And 
it  is  precisely  the  strong  man,  the  man  endowed  with  great 
powers  of  intellectual  vision,  who  will  profit  most  largely 
by  the  extension  of  the  horizon.  Hugh  Miller,  with  his 
fine,  scholarly  memory,  and  calm  comprehensiveness  of 
glance,  is  just  the  man  we  should  like  to  have  seen  stand- 
ing on  the  pyramid  of  the  past. 

It  may  seem  strange,  but  we  must  confess  that  our 
regret  that  Hugh  Miller  did  not  at  an  early  period  ac- 
quaint himself  with  the  languages  of  antiquity  is  con- 
firmed rather  than  removed  by  a  consideration  of  his 
style.  That  style  we  have  already  alluded  to  in  terms 
of  commendation;  and  it  were  not  easy  to  confer  on  it 
too  high  praise.  Dr.  Buckland  did  not  scruple  to  inform 
the  world,  that  he  "would  give  his  left  hand  to  possess 
such  powers  of  description"  as  Hugh  Miller.  Recollect- 
ing the  staid  and  prosaic  habits  of  professors,  we  cannot 
but  feel  that  Dr.  Buckland  must  have  been  very  much 
struck  indeed.  The  style  in  question  is  one  of  very  rare 
excellence.  Easy,  fluent,  clear,  and  expressive,  it  adapts 
itself,  like  a  silken  shawl,  to  every  swell,  and  motion,  and 
curve  of  a  subject.  It  is  graphic  yet  not  extravagant, 
strong  without  vociferation,  measured  without  formality, 
classically  chaste  yet  pleasingly  adorned.      It  has  the  soft. 


HUGH    MILLER.  339 

flow  and  easy  cadence  which  marked  the  best  distinctive 
styles  of  the  eighteenth  century,  stubborned  with  some- 
thing of  the  sterner  music  of  the  nineteenth.  Such  a  style 
belongs  only  to  men  of  genius.  Rich,  lucid,  pictorial,  it 
casts  fascination  over  the  old  armor  of  the  pterichthys,  or 
shows  a  whole  geographical  district  at  one  view,  the  physi- 
ognomic features  strongly  brought  out,  and  the  whole 
robed  in  a  beauty  at  once  poetic  and  scientific. 

Yet,  we  repeat,  it  seems  to  us  matter  for  regret,  in  a 
linguistic  point  of  view,  that  Hugh  Miller  turned  away 
from  the  portals  of  antiquity.  The  almost  universally 
received  canon  of  English  style,  that  it  ought  to  be 
extremely  Saxon,  we  venture  to  call  in  question.  It 
appears  rather  to  be  the  case  that  Saxon  may  be  generally 
trusted  to  take  care  of  itself,  and  that  mass,  majesty, 
power,  and  deep,  rhythmic  cadence,  are  best  secured  by 
an  infusion  of  the  Latin  element.  The  grandest  prose 
styles  in  the  language  are  cased  in  the  Roman  armor. 
The  "  cathedral  music  "  of  Milton  was  toned  by  the  classic 
tongues.  Johnson  went,  no  doubt,  to  an  unnatural  excess, 
yet  the  power  exercised  by  his  style  when  he  used  it  must 
not  be  overlooked.  Burke  was  a  classical  scholar.  So, 
with  emphasis,  was  Gibbon.  De  Quincey,  Carlyle,  Ruskin, 
and  Macaulay,  the  most  wonderful  stylists  of  our  day, 
are  all  familiar  with  the  ancient  languages.  It  were, 
perhaps,  bold  to  assert  that  this  element  is  absolutely 
necessary  to  an  English  style  of  the  highest  order.  Bu^ 
the  instances  cited,  together  with  the  fact  that  very  impor- 
tant component  parts  of  our  language  —  parts  which 
embrace  more  than  mere  words,  and  must  have  influenced 
the  very  idiom  of  the  tongue — are  derived  from  antiquity, 
may  sufficiently  vindicate  the  declaration,  that  Hugh  Mil- 
ler's style  would  have  gained  in  stateliness  and  range,  had 


340  HUGH    MILLER. 

he  become,  in  his  earlier  days,  a  thorough  classical  scholar. 
In  the  treatment  of  a  vast  majority  of  subjects,  a  simple 
Saxon  style,  of  the  Bunyan  or  Goldsmith  type,  will  suffice; 
a  good  Saxon  style  is  as  superior  to  a  bad  Latin  style,  as 
that  of  Goldsmith  was  to  that  of  Johnson;  but  in  the 
highest  flights  of  an  author — and  Hugh  Miller  has  thought 
to  sustain  him  in  the  loftiest  linguistic  flights  —  one  float3 
best  on  the  broad  pinions  of  Latin. 

But  if  the  classic  tongues  are  an  important  accession  to  a 
literary  education,  there  are  other  parts,  still  less  easily 
dispensed  with,  and  in  regard  to  these  Hugh  Miller 
furnishes  no  subject  for  complaint.  With  quick  faculty 
and  open  sympathy,  he  mastered  all  the  English  books  that 
came  in  his  way.  He  commenced  to  read  at  about  six 
years  of  age,  and  set  about  forming  a  little  library  for 
himself.  It  began  with  our  invaluable  nursery  literature, 
rich  in  adventure,  abounding  with  heroes, — the  epic  Jack, 
the  travelled  Sinbad,  the  interesting,  neat-footed  Cinder- 
ella, the  shifty  and  politic  Puss,  knowing  how  to  turn  boots 
to  advantage ;  and  the  rest.  Pope's  heroes,  in  his  meta- 
morphosis of  Homer's  Iliad,  came  next.  The  author  of 
Eothen  testifies  how  the  heart  of  every  noble  boy  is  stirred 
by  the  fierce  and  fine-spoken  valor  of  the  Popian  warriors, 
set  as  it  is  in  a  melody,  clear  and  ringing  as  the  clang  of 
arms.  The  Pilgrim 's  Progress,  that  book  for  the  nursery, 
the  home,  the  shop,  the  study,  the  deathbed,  followed.  At 
ten,  he  fell  in  with  blind  Harry's  Wallace,  and  some  time 
after,  with  Barbour's  Bruce,  and  was  forthwith  a  patriot 
and  Scotchman  to  the  finger-tips.  During  all  this  time,  he 
was  under  the  full  influence  of  Presbyterian  opinions  and 
prepossessions.  And  thus  his  days  passed,  until  he  reached 
the  threshold  of  manhood,  and  adopted  a  profession. 

The  life  of  Hugh  Miller  as  an  apprentice  and  journey- 


HUGH    MILLER.  341 

man  mason  may  be  with  sufficient  accuracy  imagined.  It 
was  one  of  continual  toil,  and,  now  and  then,  of  severe 
hardship.  He  lived  in  various  localities  through  the  coun- 
try, generally  in  bothies  or  barracks,  where  several 
workmen  put  up  together.  But  for  a  habit  of  taciturnity, 
and  a  tendency  to  musing  and  poetry,  there  was  no  differ- 
ence discernible  between  him  and  any  other  mason.  Of 
subsequent  elevation,  he  never  dreamed.  His  accent  was 
rude,  and  his  appearance  gave  no  hint  of  intellectual 
culture.  With  a  leathern  apron  before  him,  foul  with  mud 
and  dust,  his  hands,  it  might  be,  bleeding  with  his  work 
among  the  wet  stones,  none  would  have  recognized  him  for 
a  man  of  peculiar  and  exquisite  endowment,  who  had  even 
then  acquired  that  easy  and.  graceful  mastery  over  the 
English  language,  which  was  to  charm  a  large  audience 
of  the  most  cultivated  intellects  of  the  age,  and  woke  the 
admiring  despair  of  men  staggering  under  their  load  of 
erudition.  We  cannot  refrain  from  taking  one  look  at 
Hugh  Miller  during  his  life  as  a  journeyman  mason.  The 
passage  by  means  of  which  we  do  so,  and  which  occurs  in 
his  autobiography,  insists  upon  associating  itself  in  our 
minds  with  that  in  which  Milton  so  sublimely  represents 
the  student  of  his  time  as  outwatching  the  bear  in  converse 
with  the  spirit  of  Plato: — 

"  There  was  no  one  in  the  barrack  with  whom  I  cared 
much  to  converse,  or  who,  in  turn,  cared  much  to  converse 
with  me ;  and  so  I  learned,  on  the  occasions  when  the 
company  got  dull  and  broke  up  into  groups,  to  retire  to  the 
hay-loft  where  I  slept,  and  pass  there  whole  hours  seated  on 
my  chest.  The  loft  was  a  vast  apartment,  some  fifty  or 
sixty  feet  in  length,  with  its  naked  rafters  raised  little  more 
than  a  man's  height  over  the  floor ;  but  in  the  starlit  nights, 
when  the  openings  in  the  wall  assumed  the  character  of 
29* 


342  HUGH    MILLER. 

square  patches  of  darkness-visible  stamped  upon  utter 
darkness,  it  looked  quite  as  well  as  any  other  unlighted 
place  that  could  not  be  seen,  and  in  nights  brightened  by 
the  moon,  the  pale  beams,  which  found  access  at  openings 
and  crevices,  rendered  its  wide  area  quite  picturesque 
enough  for  ghosts  to  walk  in.  But  I  never  saw  any ;  and 
the  only  sounds  I  heard  were  those  made  by  the  horses  in 
the  stable  below,  champing  and  snorting  over  their  food. 
They  were,  I  doubt  not,  happy  enough  in  their  dark  stalls, 
because  they  were  horses,  and  had  plenty  to  eat,  and  I  was 
at  times  quite  happy  enough  in  the  dark  loft  above,  because 
I  was  a  man,  and  could  think  and  imagine.  It  is,  I  believe, 
Addison  who  remarks,  that  if  all  the  thoughts  which  pass 
through  men's  minds  were  to  be  made  public,  the  great 
difference  which  seems  to  exist  between  the  thinking  of  the 
wise  and  of  the  unwise  would  be  a  good  deal  reduced ; 
seeing  that  it  is  a  difference  which  does  not  consist  in  their 
not  having  the  same  weak  thoughts  in  common,  but  merely 
in  the  prudence  through  which  the  wise  suppress  their 
foolish  ones.  I  still  possess  notes  of  the  cogitations  of  these 
solitary  evenings,  ample  enough  to  show  that  they  were 
extraordinary  combinations  of  the  false  and  the  true  ;  but 
I  at  the  same  time  hold  them  sufficiently  in  memory  to 
remember,  that  I  scarce,  if  at  all,  distinguished  between 
what  was  false  and  true  in  them  at  the  time.  The  literature 
of  almost  every  people  has  a  corresponding  early  stage,  in 
which  fresh  thinking  is  mingled  with  little  conceits,  and  in 
which  the  taste  is  usually  false,  but  the  feeling  true." 

For  a  protracted  period,  Hugh  Miller  worked  for  his 
daily  bread,  pick  or  trowel  in  hand.  He,  then,  for  a  short 
time,  acted  as  accountant  in  a  bank  in  his  native  town  of 
Cromarty.  He  had  become  slightly  known  in  the  literary 
world  by  the  publication  of  a  volume  of  poems,  and  contrib- 


HUGH    MILLER.  343 

uted  to  certain  periodical  works.  A  volume  of  tales  and 
legends,  now  very  well  known,  brought  him  still  further 
into  notice.  But  the  famous  non-intrusion  controversy  was 
then  agitating  Scotland.  Hugh  Miller,  strong  in  his  Pres* 
byterian  leanings,  and  keenly  alive  to  the  evils  of  lay 
patronage,  addressed  a  letter  to  Lord  Brougham,  publishing 
the  piece  in  form  of  a  pamphlet.  It  awakened  a  wide 
interest,  and  was  complimented  in  no  measured  terms  by 
O'Connell  and  Mr.  Gladstone.  Dr.  Candlish,  then  busied, 
in  co-operation  with  the  other  leaders  of  the  evangelical 
party,  about  setting  on  foot  a  newspaper  to  advocate  the 
views  of  the  non-intrusion ists,  had  perused  the  letter  hi 
manuscript,  and  at  once  pronounced  its  author  the  fitting 
man  to  conduct  the  paper.  So,  in  1840,  Hugh  Miller 
became  editor  of  the  Witness  newspaper,  and  a  very  brief 
period  elapsed  ere  he  was  one  of  the  most  influential  men 
in  his  country. 

The  "  able  editor,"  if  we  may  be  permitted  to  interpose 
a  semi-pilosophical  reflection,  seems  to  us  something  of  an 
interim  phenomenon.  He  marks  a  state  of  transition  from 
a  state  of  information  and  intelligence  gone  past,  to  a  state 
of  general  intellectual  culture  not  yet  arrived.  It  is  not 
indeed  necessary  to  suppose  that  he  will  himself  pass  away ; 
such  a  supposition  would,  on  the  contrary,  be  highly  ab- 
surd: but  he  may  gradually  undermine  the  ground  he 
himself  stands  on,  and  there  are  not  wanting  indications  in 
the  present  day,  that  he  is  being  overtaken  by  the  general 
intelligence.  In  the  olden  time,  in  the  days,  for  instance, 
of  our  old  friend  Abbot  Samson,  of  St.  Edmundsbury  mon- 
astery in  the  twelfth  century,  men  were  led  blindfold  by 
some  one  man  who  had  his  eyes  open.  The  chief  saw  for 
the  vassal,  and  led  him  along  unknowing  whither  he  went. 
The  priest  saw  for  the  flock,  told  it  what  he  chose,  and  was 


344  HUGH    MILLER. 

implicitly  believed.  It  was,  in  Fichte's  phraseology,  the 
period  of  unquestioning  submission  to  authority.  We  are 
now  in  progress  —  we  may  at  least  hope  or  suppose  — 
toward  that  intellectual  state  which  Fichte  defined  as 
"  freedom  in  consistence  with  reason. "  Meanwhile,  the 
time  is  characterized  by  partial  submission  and  partial  free- 
dom. The  mass  of  men  judge  more,  know  more,  are  more 
free  and  self-established,  than  the  retainer  or  monk  of  the 
middle  ages.  The  newspaper  editor  still  does  much  of  the 
thinking  for  men  in  general,  and  people  submit,  so  far,  their 
thoughts  to  him.  But,  by  the  action  of  the  press,  you 
obtain,  on  the  one  hand,  a  greater  amount  of  freedom  than 
ever  distinguished  the  mass  before,  and,  on  the  other, 
a  higher  average  of  information,  a  more  general  exercise  of 
thought,  than,  were  men  unassisted  by  newspapers,  would 
subsist.  Mr.  Carlyle  must  not  sneer  too  bitterly  against 
the  able  editor.  The  matter  perhaps  most  to  be  regretted 
in  connection  with  the  profession  is,  that  men,  often  of 
great  reach  and  sagacity,  should  spend  their  strength  in  the 
continual  day  drudgery  of  editorial  toil.  One  can  sym- 
pathize with  Hugh  Miller  when  he  makes  use  of  these 
words : —  "  I  remembered  that  I  was  a  writer;  that  it  was 
my  business  to  write, —  to  cast,  day  after  day,  shavings 
from  off  my  mind  (the  figure  is  Cowper's)  —  that  went 
rolling  away,  crisp  and  dry,  among  the  vast  heap  already 
on  the  floor,  and  were  never  more  heard  of,  "  &c.  It  must 
not,  however,  be  forgotten,  that  it  is  every  man's  duty  to 
lay  so  much  of  his  heart's  blood  on  the  altar  of  his  time,  to 
speak  to  and  guide  his  own  generation,  though  other  gener- 
ations hear  him  not.  Now,  more  than  heretofore,  we  must 
be  content  to  see  a  man  spreading  over  twenty  years,  in 
weekly  dispensings,  that  teaching  which,  if  condensed  into 
one  work,  —  the  result  of  twenty  years'  endeavor  —  might 


HUGH    MILLER.  345 

live  for  twenty  centuries.  The  harvests  of  the  present  are 
not  lost,  though  they  are  swiftly  gathered  off  the  ground 
and  make  room  for  others.  Hugh  Miller  has  not  been 
thrown  away  as  a  newspaper  editor.  His  teachings  have 
sunk  deep  into  the  heart  of  Scotland,  and  work  at  the  roots 
of  the  national  life.  More  than  any  layman  he  contributed 
to  the  founding  of  the  Free  Church. 

But  we  must  view  Miller  somewhat  more  particularly  in 
his  capacity  of  man  of  science.  In  the  commencement  of 
The  Old  Red  Sandstone^  there  occurs  the  following  pas- 
sage. His  life  as  a  stone-mason  had  begun  on  the  previous 
day:  — 

"All  the  workmen  rested  at  midday,  and  I  went  to  enjoy 
my  half-hour  alone  on  a  mossy  knoll  in  the  neighboring 
wood,  which  commands  through  the  trees  a  wide  prospect 
of  the  bay  and  the  opposite  shore.  There  was  not  a  wrin- 
kle on  the  water,  nor  a  cloud  in  the  sky,  and  the  branches 
were  as  moveless  in  the  calm  as  if  they  had  been  traced  on 
canvas.  From  a  wooded  promontory  that  stretched  half- 
way across  the  Frith,  there  ascended  a  thin  column  of 
smoke.  It  rose  straight  as  the  line  of  a  plummet  for 
more  than  a  thousand  yards,  and  then,  on  reaching  a 
thinner  stratum  of  air,  spread  out  equally  on  every  side 
like  the  foliage  of  a  stately  tree.  Ben  Wyvis  rose  to  the 
west,  white  with  the  yet  unwasted  snows  of  winter,  and  as 
sharply  defined  in  the  clear  atmosphere,  as  if  all  its  sunny 
slopes  and  blue  retiring  hollows  had  been  chiselled  in  mar- 
ble. A  line  of  snow  ran  along  the  opposite  hills ;  all  above 
was  white,  and  all  below  was  purple.  They  reminded  me 
of  the  pretty  French  story,  in  which  an  old  artist  is  de- 
scribed as  tasking  the  ingenuity  of  his  future  son-in-law,  by 
giving  him  as  a  subject  for  his  pencil  a  flower-piece  com- 
posed of  only  white  flowers,  of  which  the  one  half  were  to 


34G  HUGH    MILLER. 

bear  their  proper  color,  the  other  half  a  deep  purple  hue, 
and  yet  all  be  perfectly  natural ;  and  how  the  young  man 
resolved  the  riddle  and  gained  his  mistress,  by  introducing 
a  transparent  purple  vase  into  the  picture,  and  making  the 
light  pass  through  it  on  the  flowers  that  were  drooping 
over  the  edge.  I  returned  to  the  quarry,  convinced  that  a 
very  exquisite  pleasure  may  be  a  very  cheap  one,  and  that 
the  busiest  employments  may  afford  leisure  enough  to  enjoy 
it.  The  gunpowder  had  loosened  a  large  mass  in  one  of 
the  inferior  strata,  and  our  first  employment,  on  resuming 
our  labors,  was  to  raise  it  from  its  bed.  I  assisted  the  other 
workmen  in  placing  it  on  edge,  and  was  much  struck  by 
the  appearance  of  the  platform  on  which  it  had  rested. 
The  entire  surface  was  ridged  and  furrowed  like  a  bank 
of  sand  that  had  been  left  by  the  tide  an  hour  before. 
I  could  trace  every  bend  and  curvature,  every  cross  hol- 
low and  counter  ridge  of  the  corresponding  phenomenon ; 
for  the  resemblance  was  no  half  resemblance — it  was  the 
thing  itself,  and  I  had  observed  it  a  hundred  and  a  hun- 
dred times  when  sailing  my  little  schooner  in  the  shallows 
left  by  the  ebb.  But  what  had  become  of  the  waves  that 
had  thus  fretted  the  solid  rock,  or  of  what  element  had 
they  been  composed  ?  I  felt  as  completely  at  fault  as  Rob- 
inson Crusoe  did  on  his  discovering  the  print  of  a  man's 
foot  on  the  sand.  The  evening  furnished  me  with  still 
further  cause  of  wonder.  We  raised  another  block  in  a 
different  part  of  the  quarry,  and  found  that  the  area  of 
a  circular  depression  in  the  stratum  below  was  broken 
and  flawed  in  every  direction,  as  if  it  had  been  the  bot- 
tom of  a  pool  recently  dried  up,  which  had  shrunk  and 
split  in  the  hardening.  Several  large  stones  came  rolling 
down  from  the  diluvium  in  the  course  of  the  afternoon. 
They  were  of  different  qualities  from  the  sandstone  below, 


.    HUGH    MILLER.  347 

and  from  one  another,  and,  what  was  more  wonderful  still, 
they  were  all  rounded  and  water-worn,  as  if  they  had  been 
tossed  about  in  the  sea,  or  the  bed  of  a  river,  for  hundreds 
of  years.  There  could  not,  surely,  be  a  more  conclusive 
proof  that  the  bank  which  had  enclosed  them  so  long,  could 
not  have  been  created  on  the  rock  on  which  it  rested.  No 
workman  ever  manufactures  a  half-worn  article,  and  the 
stones  were  all  half-worn!  And,  if  not  the  bank,  why, 
then,  the  sandstone  underneath?  I  was  lost  in  conjec- 
ture, and  found  that  I  had  food  enough  for  thought  that 
evening  without  once  thinking  of  the  unhappiness  of  a  life 
of  labor." 

That  company  of  quarrymen  on  the  banks  of  the  Cro- 
marty Frith,  on  that  fine  spring  morning,  had  been  a  sight 
worth  seeing.  Nothing,  probably,  would  have  struck  us  as 
we  marked  the  group  going  out  in  the  morning.  Nothing 
would  have  arrested  our  attention  in  the  somewhat  lank, 
bushy-headed,  quiet-looking  lad,  who  worked  hard,  but 
seemed  somewhat  of  a  novice,  as  we  watched  them  at 
their  toil.  But,  when  we  observed,  at  the  hour  of  noon, 
that  while  the  others  went  to  lounge,  or  smoke,  or  doze, 
this  young  man  found  his  rest  and  pleasure  in  gazing  upon 
that  sublime  panorama,  where,  in  the  west,  Wyvis  presides 
among  the  mountains,  and  the  glassy  Frith  lies  lake-like  at 
his  feet,  reminding  one  of  the  fine  lines  in  which  an  Amer- 
ican poet  describes  a  great  mountain,  looking  down  in  the 
pride  of  a  monarch, 

"  While  far  below  the  lake  in  bridal  rest 
Sleeps  with  his  glorious  picture  on  her  breast;" 

when  we  observed  that  his  eye  brightened  with  the  glow 
of  pure  delight,  and  continued  to  rest  on  the  scene  until 
every  feature  was  pencilled  out  and  hung  in  the  hall  of 


348  HUGH    MILLER. 

memory ;  we  might  have  begun  to  suspect  that  there  was 
something  unusual  in  this  mason.  We  might  have  begun 
to  surmise,  that  nature  had  twined  around  his  heart  some 
of  those  finer  threads  of  sympathy  which  draw  her  favored 
child  away  from  the  crowd  to  her  own  breast.  We  might 
have  ventured  to  predict,  that  the  man  before  us  would  not 
die  in  his  present  capacity.  And  then,  when  we  returned 
with  him  to  the  quarry,  and  noted  that,  while  the  others 
who  toiled  with  him,  as  they  turned  up  stone  after  stone, 
found  no  sermons  therein  for  them,  and  felt  no  questionings 
arise  in  their  minds,  his  eye  kindled  with  the  quick  piercing 
gleam  of  curiosity,  and  he  could  not  resist  the  impulse  to 
question,  and  examine,  and  infer;  we  might  again  have  ven- 
tured to  affirm,  that  nature  had  here  a  son  who  would  one 
day  know  her  well,  and  perhaps  reveal  her  to  men. 

We  should  not  have  erred  in  our  surmisings.  The  inquis- 
itive look  and  cautious  glance  of  that  quarryman  were 
signs  of  the  presence  of  one  of  the  finest  observational 
capacities  of  the  age.  The  training  of  the  faculty  had 
begun  in  early  youth ;  its  exercise  was  the  solace  of  years 
of  toil,  and  the  ultimate  guide  to  a  brilliant  and  world-wide 
reputation.  By  the  shores  of  the  Friths  of  Cromarty  and 
Moray,  under  the  direction  of  Uncle  Sandy,  young  Hugh 
had  learned  to  watch  the  habits  of  the  crab  and  the 
lobster,  to  admire  the  tints  of  the  sea-moss,  to  wonder  at 
the  organization  of  the  sea-hare  and  cuttle-fish.  His  life  as 
a  mason  furnished  admirable  opportunities  for  the  gratifi- 
cation of  his  curiosity,  and  the  exercise  of  his  observational 
powers.  He  was,  he  tells  us,  "  an  explorer  of  caves  and 
ravines  —  a  loiterer  along  sea-shores  —  a  climber  among 
rocks."  Surrounded  by  the  deep  silence  of  a  workman's 
life,  in  the  seclusion  of  tastes  unshared,  of  powers  un- 
known,  of  ambition    unawakened,    he    pursued,    calmly, 


HUGH    MILLER.  349 

steadily,  accurately,  his  course  of  observation.  Living  a 
life  in  reality  apart,  strengthening  and  expanding  his 
general  powers  by  the  study  of  philosophy  and  poetry 
he  did  not  permit  his  observation  to  degenerate  into  a 
childish  storing  up  of  isolated  facts.  He  combined  a 
generalizing  power  of  a  high  order,  with  that  of  minute, 
unfailing  observation.  He  learned  to  unite  the  broad  glance 
of  the  geographer,  with  the  microscopic  inspection  of  the 
mineralogist.  He  could  chronicle  every  tint  of  hue,  every 
line  of  form,  in  the  scale  embedded  in  the  rock ;  while  by 
wide  philosophic  induction,  he  could  ascertain  precisely 
what  contribution  was  made  by  that  scale  to  the  geolog- 
ical history  of  the  planet. 

Traversing  Scotland  from  the  German  Ocean  to  the 
Atlantic,  from  Pentland  Frith  to  the  Cheviots,  living  now 
among  the  craggy  valleys  of  Argyllshire,  now  upon  the 
sandy  flats  of  Moray,  his  eye  became  accustomed  to  every 
form  of  landscape.  He  came  speedily  to  know  his  country 
with  that  profound  knowledge,  which  recognizes  the  anat- 
omy under  the  form,  and  which  can  predict  the  form  from 
the  anatomy.  Possessing  also  that  delicate  sensibility  to 
beauty,  and  that  familiar  acquaintance  with  the  descriptive 
stores  of  English  poetry,  to  which  we  have  already  alluded, 
he  was  able  to  cast  exquisite  lights  of  fancy  over  those 
landscapes  which  science  first  revealed  to  him  in  their 
rugged  and  literal  truth.  His  descriptions  of  nature  were 
of  a  kind  not  merely  to  instruct  and  delight  the  man  of 
science,  but  to  afford  intense  gratification  to  the  artist,  and 
whoever  had  a  soul  open  to  the  enjoyment  of  nature's  beauty. 
We  refer  at  present  to  a  quality  of  description  deeper  than 
mere  style.  It  relates  to  the  exhibition  of  nature's  facts, 
which  must  first  be  known,  and  that  in  a  peculiar  manner, 
before  the  effect  can  be  produced.  Miller's  descriptions  of 
natural  scenes  may  be  compared  with  those  of  Ruskin. 

EIEST  SERIES-         30 


350  HUGH    MILLER. 

He,  as  well  as  the  great  pictorial  critic,  produces  pictures, 
clear,  definite,  visible,  which  one  can  hang  up  in  the  cham- 
bers of  his  mind,  and  gaze  on  with  unsated  pleasure. 
Hugh  Miller  and  Kuskin  started  from  different  points. 
The  latter  set  out  from  beauty.  He  looked  over  nature  for 
the  Beautiful.  Had  scientific  accuracy  proved  inconsistent 
with  beauty,  he  would  have  discarded  scientific  accuracy, 
and  wrapped  himself  in  a  garb  of  fantasy.  But  as  he 
looked  over  nature  through  the  glass  of  beauty,  he  dis- 
cerned, as  he  believed,  that  the  loveliness  of  truth  was 
greater  than  the  loveliness  of  fantasy.  So  science  became 
for  him  the  handmaid  of  beauty;  his  imagination  smiled 
most  brightly  beside  the  homely  fires  of  fact.  Hugh 
Miller  started  from  the  side  of  science.  He  sought  for,  he 
described,  bare  truth.  He  desired  to  know  and  show  what 
the  world  was,  making  no  postulate  in  favor  of  beauty. 
He  opened  his  eyes  and  looked.  He  followed  the  lines, 
and  imitated  the  colors,  of  reality.  He  held  up  the  page, 
and  lo!  the  result  was  beauty.  Ruskin  set  out  with 
poetry,  and  met  science :  Hugh  Miller  set  out  with  science, 
and  met  poetry. 

A  parallel  might  be  instituted,  also,  between  Ruskin  and 
Miller  in  this,  That  each  attracted  to  his  particular  sub- 
ject of  study,  a  large  audience  of  those  previously  repelled. 
Ruskin,  by  expounding  Art  on  broader  principles  and  in 
a  more  eloquent  manner  than  had  been  formerly  done,  by 
freeing  it  of  encumbering  technicalities  and  allying  it  to 
general  human  sympathy,  drew  a  vast  miscellaneous 
audience  to  listen  to  essentially  profound  and  accurate 
artistic  teaching.  Miller,  by  arraying  science  in  that  garb 
of  beauty  which  belongs  to  all  the  visible  forms  of  nature, 
allured  a  similar  audience  to  receive  scientific  instruction 
of  a  kind  correspondingly  deep  and  exact. 

As  a  geologist,  Hugh  Miller  stands  in  the  highest  of  all 


HUGH    MILLER.  351 

orders,  if  in  that  order  he  does  not  occupy  one  of  the  first 
stations.  He  is  in  the  order  of  original  discoverers.  His 
place  is  among  the  honored  few,  who  have  added  to  the 
domain  of  human  knowledge.  He  accurately  mapped  out, 
as  represented  in  his  own  country,  one  of  the  most  inter- 
esting and  least  known  of  geographical  formations,  the  Old 
Red  Sandstone.  He  made  express  additions  to  the  number 
of  its  classified  organisms.  His  views  of  the  science  as  a 
whole  are  comprehensive  and  philosophical,  but  it  is  on  this 
distinctively  that  his  fame  as  a  geologist  will  repose. 

In  the  cottage  of  Hugh  Miller's  boyhood,  was  that  "  one 
Book,  wherein  for  several  thousands  of  years  the  spirit  of 
man  has  found  light,  and  an  interpreting  response  to  what- 
ever is  deepest  in  him,"  and  which  is  still  the  Word  of  God, 
whatever  the  author  of  these  words  may  think.  In  Hugh 
Miller's  education,  the  most  important  agent  of  all  had  been 
the  Bible.  For  many  years,  the  influence  of  early  instruc- 
tion had  seemed  to  have  passed  away,  but  before  the  time 
at  which  he  quitted  manual  labor,  he  had  reflected  deeply 
on  religious  subjects,  had  accepted  Christianity  as  a  living 
faith,  and  owned  the  gravitating  power  of  that  "  Divine 
Man  "  whom  he  saw  to  be  "  the  sole  gravitating  point  of  a 
system  which  owes  to  Him  all  its  coherence,  and  which 
would  be  but  a  chaos  were  He  away."  This  leads  us  to 
one  of  the  most  important  aspects  in  which  Hugh  Miller 
can  be  viewed  —  that  great  practical  aspect,  namely,  in 
which  he  unites  the  theologian  and  the  man  of  science.  We 
shall  introduce  our  remarks  upon  him  in  this  capacity  by  a 
quotation  from  the  remarkable  chapter  which  closes  his 
"  Footprints  of  the  Creator  :" — 

"  The  first  idea  of  every  religion  on  earth  which  has  arisen 
out  of  what  may  be  termed  the  spiritual  instinct  of  man's 
nature,  is  that  of  a  future  state ;  the  second  idea  is,  that  in 


352  HUGH    MILLER. 

this  state  men  shall  exist  in  two  separate  classes  —  the  one 
in  advance  of  their  present  condition,  the  other  far  in  the 
rear  of  it.  It  is  on  these  two  great  beliefs  that  conscience 
everywhere  finds  the  fulcrum  from  which  it  acts  upon  the 
conduct ;  and  it  is  wholly  inoperative  as  a  force  without 
them.  And  in  that  one  religion  among  men  that,  instead 
of  retiring,  like  the  pale  ghosts  of  the  others,  before  the 
light  of  civilization,  brightens  and  expands  in  its  beams, 
and  in  favor  of  whose  claim  as  a  revelation  from  God  the 
highest  philosophy  has  declared,  we  find  these  two  master 
ideas  occupying  a  still  more  prominent  place  than  in  any  of 
those  merely  indigenous   religions  that  spring  up  in  the 

human  mind  of  themselves There  is  not  in  all 

revelation  a  single  doctrine  which  we  find  oftener,  or  more 
clearly  enforced,  than  that  there  shall  continue  to  exist, 
through  the  endless  cycles  of  the  future,  a  race  of  degraded 
men  and  of  degraded  angels.  Now  it  is  truly  wonderful 
how  thoroughly,  in  its  general  scope,  the  revealed  pieces  on 
to  the  geologic  record.  We  know,  as  geologists,  that  the 
dynasty  of  the  fish  was  succeeded  by  that  of  the  reptile  — 
that  the  dynasty  of  the  reptile  was  succeeded  by  that  of 
the  mammiferous  quadruped  —  and  that  the  dynasty  of  the 
mammiferous  quadruped  was  succeeded  by  that  of  man,  as 
man  now  exists  —  a  creature  of  mixed  character,  and  sub- 
ject, in  all  conditions,  to  wide  alternations  of  enjoyment 
and  suffering.  We  know,  further  —  so  far,  at  least,  as  we 
have  yet  succeeded  in  deciphering  the  record  —  that  the 
several  dynasties  were  introduced,  not  in  their  lower,  but  in 
their  higher  forms ;  that,  in  short,  in  the  imposing  pro- 
gramme of  creation  it  was  arranged,  as  a  general  rule,  that 
in  each  of  the  great  divisions  of  the  procession  the  mag, 
nates  should  walk  first.  We  recognize  yet  further  the  fact 
of  degradation  specially  exemplified  in  the  fish  and  the 


HUGH    MILLER.  353 

reptile.  And  then,  passing  on  to  the  revealed  record,  we 
learn  that  the  dynasty  of  man  in  the  mixed  state  and 
character  is  not  the  final  one,  but  that  there  is  to  be  yet 
another  creation,  or,  more  properly,  re-creation,  known 
theologically  as  the  Resurrection,  which  shall  be  connected 
in  its  physical  components,  by  bonds  of  mysterious  pater- 
nity, with  the  dynasty  which  now  reigns,  and  be  bound  to 
it  mentally  by  the  chain  of  identity,  conscious  and  actual ; 
but  which,  in  all  that  constitutes  superiority,  shall  be  as 
vastly  its  superior,  as  the  dynasty  of  responsible  man  is 
superior  to  even  the  lowest  of  the  preliminary  dynasties. 
We  are  further  taught,  that  at  the  commencement  of  this 
last  of  the  dynasties  there  will  be  a  re-creation  of  not  only 
elevated,  but  also  of  degraded  beings  —  a  re-creation  of  the 
lost.  We  are  taught  yet  further,  that  though  the  present 
dynasty  be  that  of  a  lapsed  race,  which  at  their  first  intro- 
duction were  placed  on  higher  ground  than  that  on  which 
they  now  stand,  and  sank  by  their  own  act,  it  was  yet  part 
of  the  original  design,  from  the  beginning  of  all  things, 
that  they  should  occupy  the  existing  platform ;  and  that 
Redemption  is  thus  no  after-thought,  rendered  necessary 
by  the  Fall,  but,  on  the  contrary,  part  of  a  general  scheme, 
for  which  provision  had  been  made  from  the  beginning ;  so 
that  the  Divine  Man,  through  whom  the  work  of  restora- 
tion has  been  effected,  was  in  reality,  in  reference  to  the 
purposes  of  the  Eternal,  what  he  is  designated  in  the 
remarkable  text,  c  the  Lamb  slain  from  the  foundations 
of  the  world?  Slain  from  the  foundations  of  the  world ! 
Could  the  assertors  of  the  stony  science  ask  for  language 
more  express  ?  By  piecing  the  two  records  together  — 
that  revealed  in  Scripture,  and  that  revealed  in  the  rocks  — 
records  which,  however  widely  geologists  may  mistake  the 
one,  or  commentators  misunderstand  the  other,  have 
30* 


354  HUGH    MILLER. 

emanated  from  the  same  great  Author — we  learn  that  in 
slow  and  solemn  majesty  has  period  succeeded  period,  each 
in  succession  ushering  in  a  higher  and  yet  higher  scene  of 
existence;  that  fish,  reptiles,  mammiferous  quadrupeds, 
have  reigned  in  turn ;  that  responsible  man,  '  made  in  the 
image  of  God,'  and  with  dominion  over  all  creatures,  ulti- 
mately entered  into  a  world  ripened  for  his  reception  :  but, 
further,  that  this  passing  scene,  in  which  he  forms  the 
prominent  figure,  is  not  the  final  one  in  the  long  series,  but 
merely  the  last  of  the  preliminary  scenes ;  and  that  that 
period  to  which  the  by-gone  ages,  incalculable  in  amount, 
with  all  their  well  proportioned  gradations  of  being,  form 
the  imposing  vestibule,  shall  have  perfection  for  its  occu- 
pant, and  eternity  for  its  duration.  I  know  not  how  it  may 
appear  to  others ;  but,  for  my  own  part,  I  cannot  avoid 
thinking  that  there  would  be  a  lack  of  proportion  in  the 
series  of  being,  were  the  period  of  perfect  and  glorified 
humanity  abruptly  connected,  without  the  introduction  of 
an  intermediate  creation  of  responsible  imperfection,  with 
that  of  the  dying  irresponsible  brute.  That  scene  of  things 
in  which  God  became  Man,  and  suffered,  seems,  as  it  no 
doubt  is,  a  necessary  link  in  the  chain." 

The  theologian  of  the  nineteenth  century  will  have  to 
know  and  ponder  such  passages  as  this,  to  scrutinize  care- 
fully the  intimations  they  read  him,  to  follow  conscientiously 
the  clue  they  put  into  his  hand.  The  seventeenth  century 
is  known  among  the  centuries  as  that  in  which  the  written 
Word  of  God  was  explored,  so  to  speak,  to  its  inmost  recess. 
We  say  not  the  work  was  finished ;  but,  of  all  ages,  the 
most  strictly  biblical,  that  which  seemed  to  live  in  and  upon 
the  simple  and  separate  Bible,  was  the  seventeenth.  One 
great  task  of  the  nineteenth  century  seems  to  be,  to  search 
into  and  know  the  works  of  God.     It  stands  distinguished 


HUGH    MILLER.  355 

as  the  age  of  physical  science.  There  was  a  certain  danger 
that  theologians  should  forget  that  God  made  the  world, 
and  that  therefore  it  was  holy.  The  gaze  of  hallowed  ecstacy 
with  which  David  had  looked  from  the  battlements  of  Zion, 
upon  the  palm-crowned  mountains  that  stood  around,  as  he 
seized  his  harp,  and  burst  into  a  song  of  praise  to  God  the 
Maker,  seemed  to  have  darkened  and  narrowed  into  a  cold, 
critical,  peering  look,  that  searched  for  flaws  in  creeds,  and 
glanced  rather  timorously  towards  the  mountains,  as  if  it 
might  turn  out  that  God  had  not  made  them  after  all.  As 
must  ever  and  universally  be  the  case,  partiality  was  error. 
A  certain  littleness  was  imparted  to  the  views  of  the  physi- 
cal world,  as  a  piece  of  God's  workmanship ;  a  certain  glory 
was  taken  away  from  the  Word  of  God,  as  the  oracle  of 
the  moral  world;  by  the  absence  of  that  light  which  they 
were  fitted  to  cast  on  each  other.  Such  men  as  Thomas 
Chalmers,  Hugh  Miller,  John  Pye  Smith,  and  others,  have 
essayed  to  show  the  inter-reflection  of  light  and  glory 
between  the  two,  and  the  day  will  come  when  the  work 
they  have  commenced  will  be  fully  accomplished.  Its  even 
partial  accomplishment  will  mark  our  century.  As  it  is,  the 
theologian  who  accepts  the  facts  of  God's  workmanship  as 
not  to  be  disputed,  as  facts  which,  if  once  well  proved,  it 
were  irreverent,  nay  blasphemous,  to  deny,  may  already,  we 
think,  obtain  dim  but  glorious  glimpses  into  far  regions  of 
spiritual  truth  —  into  the  destinies  of  man,  into  the  essen- 
tials of  judgment,  into  the  meaning  of  death  —  which  the 
lamp  of  science  faintly  indicates  when  hung  over  the  Word 
of  God.  But  much  has  yet  to  be  done,  and  much  must  be 
acknowledged  to  lie  yet  unrevealed.  Meanwhile  the  two 
grand  perils  are,  on  the  one  hand,  ignoble  fear,  and,  on  the 
other,  presumption.  The  man  who  looks  over  the  moral 
world,  and  discerns  that  it  is  an  inexplicable  chaos,  a  stan- 


356  HUGH    MILLER. 

dardless  battle,  a  sick  and  fevered  dream,  unless  God  has 
spoken  in  the  Bible,  may  surely  have  such  manlike  trust  in 
God  that  he  can  fearlessly  examine  every  story  of  the  phys- 
ical dwelling  He  has  made  for  him,  although,  for  the 
present,  God  does  not  reveal  to  him  how  its  apparent  dis- 
crepancies with  the  moral  fabric  He  has  let  down  from 
heaven  are  to  be  harmonized.  Surely,  on  the  other  hand, 
the  man,  who  talks  in  the  fashionable  pagan  language  of 
the  day  of "  the  gods,"  and  who  yet  must  see  these  gods 
preparing  this  earth  for  man,  with  much  fuss  and  commo- 
tion, and  then  sitting,  like  a  set  of  fools,  to  see  the  great 
game  of  blind-man's-buff  which  their  children  play,  and 
laugh  at  the  gropings  and  mistakes, — the  man,  who,  if  he  is 
honest,  and  bold,  and  unhesitating  in  discrowning  God  and 
his  religion,  must  accept  as  the  correct  and  unexaggerated 
scheme  of  world-history,  that  ghastly  poem  of  Poe's,  in 
which,  with  perfect  honesty  from  his  point  of  view,  he  por- 
trays man,  since  his  arrival  here,  as  running  after  phantoms, 
of  which  the  central  phantom  is  merely  the  most  phantas- 
mal of  all,  and  which  very  appropriately  concludes  in  these 
words, 

"  The  play  is  the  tragedy  Man, 
And  the  hero  the  conqueror  Worm: " 

this  man,  we  say,  might  surely  pause  ere  he  declares  that 
the  scientific  information  of  yesterday  contradicts  the  alone 
explaining  theory  of  man's  existence.  Let  the  Christian 
have  faith  in  God's  word  :  let  the  infidel  tumble  his  moral 
world  in  ruins ;  there  is  not  the  slightest  fear  of  his  tum- 
bling the  moral  world  into  ruins.  Both  infidels  and  Chris- 
tians are  always  thinking  God  is  such  an  one  as  themselves. 
The  one  party  thinks  it  has  got  the  Sun  of  the  moral  uni- 
verse   fairly    out.      The    other    takes    to  trembling   and 


HUGH    MILLER.  357 

vociferating,  and  holding  tip  supplementary  rush-lights,  as 
if  it  feared  the  Sun  was  going  out.  Meanwhile  the  ages 
roll  on,  and  the  mist  rolls  off,  and  the  Sun  is  there  still. 
From  every  new  elevation  of  science,  fear  it  not,  there  will 
be  a  wider  prospect  of  truth.  Just  now  we  may  be  in  the 
valley,  and  the  ocean  may  be  shut  out  which  we  saw  clearly 
from  the  lower  hill  behind.  But  onwards!  When  we 
reach  the  top  of  this  other  hill  before  us,  the  ocean  of  truth, 
and  the  Sun  that  clothes  it  all  in  gold,  will  be  seen  spreading 
further  than  ever  before.  Hugh  Miller's  clear,  strong  intel- 
lect, fine  poetic  discernment  of  nature's  all-pervading  analo- 
gies, and  manly  piety,  fit  him  well  to  pioneer  the  scientific, 
cosmical  theology  of  the  latter  time. 

We  have  not  spoken  expressly  of  Hugh  Miller's  poetry, 
and  it  is  unnecessary  to  do  so.  His  finest  poetry  is,  we 
presume,  his  prose.  He  would,  we  feel  assured,  agree  in 
this  himself.  We  go  on  to  mention  a  characteristic  which 
harmonizes  finely  with  the  general  strength  of  his  nature, 
and  which  seems  the  result  of  this  in  combination  with  the 
kindness  of  his  heart :  we  mean  his  humor.  This  is  not  one 
of  the  most  important  or  engrossing  of  his  qualities,  but,  as 
far  as  it  goes,  it  is  genuine,  and  remarkably  pleasing.  It  is 
a  perception  of  the  laughable  in  nature ;  of  those  weak- 
nesses which  are  not  sins,  those  incongruities  which  do  not 
hurt,  those  self-revelations  which  oscillate  amusingly  be- 
tween the  egotism  that  is  offensive  and  the  vanity  that  is  des- 
picable ;  of  all  those  things  which  were  manifestly  intended 
to  be  kept  in  check  by  no  ruder  weapon  than  laughter,  and 
which  are  not  checked  absolutely,  because  laughter  is  good 
for  men  in  its  time.  Hugh  Miller's  laugh  is  always  quiet 
and  kindly ;  never,  to  our  knowledge,  cynical  and  contemp- 
tuous, save  when  some  real  iniquity  is  to  be  mocked  into 
air.     He  has  no  feeling  of  contempt  for  the  "  young  lady 


353  HUGH    MILLER. 

passenger  of  forty  or  thereabouts,"  who  took  her  seat  in  the 
same  railway  carriage  with  him,  and  who  "  had  a  bloom  of 
red  in  her  cheeks  that  seemed  to  have  been  just  a  little 
assisted  by  art,  and  a  bloom  of  red  in  her  nose  that  seemed 
not  to  have  been  assisted  by  art  at  all."  It  is  merely  a 
smile  of  hearty  geniality  which  lights  his  features  as  he 
encounters  two  of  Shenstone's  nymphs  on  his  visit  to  the 
Leasowes:  — 

"  I  had  read  Shenstone  early  enough  to  wonder  what 
sort  of  looking  people  his  Delias  and  Cecilias  were ;  and 
now,  ere  plunging  into  the  richly  wooded  Leasowes,  I  had 
got  hold  of  the  right  idea.  The  two  naileresses  were  really 
very  pretty.  Cecilia,  a  ruddy  blonde,  was  fabricating  tackets ; 
Delia,  a  bright-eyed  brunette,  engaged  in  heading  a  double- 
double." 

Even  when  he  visits  St.  Paul's,  and  speaks  thus,  he  is  in 
the  best  humor,  for  all  the  slyness  of  his  laugh: — 

"It  is  comfortable  to  have  only  twopence  to  pay  for 
leave  to  walk  over  the  area  of  so  noble  a  pile,  and  to  have 
to  pay  the  twopence,  too,  to  such  grave,  clerical  looking 
men  as  the  officials  at  the  receipt  of  custom.  It  reminds 
one  of  the  blessings  of  a  religious  establishment  in  a  place 
where  otherwise  they  might  possibly  be  overlooked;  no 
private  company  could  afford  to  build  such  a  pile  as  St. 
Paul's,  and  then  show  it  for  twopences." 

But  perhaps,  of  all  we  can  say  in  praise  of  Hugh  Miller, 
the  highest  compliment,  all  things  considered,  is  the  last 
we  are  to  pay  him.  It  is,  that  he  is,  in  the  best  sense,  a 
gentleman ;  that  he  is  truly  and  strictly  polite.  We  intend, 
by  this,  very  high  praise  indeed ;  true  politeness  is  one  of 
the  rarest  things.  The  word  has  been  variously  denned. 
We  have  heard  it  indicated  as  being  a  knowledge  of  the 
little  usages  of  society,   such  as  not  pouring  tea  into  a 


HUGH    MILLER.  359 

saucer,  not  speaking  in  company  without  an  introduction, 
and  such  like,  and  the  habit  of  strictly  and  naturally  con- 
forming to  such.  This  requires  no  refutation :  its  very 
utterance,  on  the  principle  that  in  speaking  of  a  thing  you 
set  in  the  foreground  your  main  idea  regarding  it,  implies 
hopeless  ignorance  of  the  nature  of  politeness: — • 

"  The  churl  in  spirit,  howe'er  he  vail 
His  want  in  forms  for  fashion's  sake, 
Will  let  his  coltish  nature  break 
At  seasons  through  the  gilded  pale." 

True  politeness  may  be  met  in  the  hut  of  the  Arab,  in  the 
courtyard  of  the  Turk,  in  the  cottage  of  the  Irishman,  and 
is  excessively  rare  in  ball-rooms.  It  is  independent  of 
accent  and  of  form,  it  is  one  of  the  constant  and  universal 
noble  attributes  of  man,  wherever  and  howsoever  devel- 
oped. It  has  been  defined  again,  "perfect  ease,  without 
vulgarity  or  affectation."  Here  manifestly  a  great  advance 
is  made ;  one  half  of  politeness  is  correctly  defined.  Yet 
we  think  there  is  overlooked  that  part  of  politeness  which 
refers  to  others  besides  one's  self;  and  politeness,  as  it 
consists  wholly  in  a  certain  dealing  of  man  with  man,  must 
include  both  parties  in  its  reference.  The  truly  polite  man 
is  not  merely  at  ease,  but  always  sets  you  at  ease.  We 
venture  to  define  it  thus:  Politeness  is  natural,  genial, 
manly  deference,  with  a  natural  delicacy  in  dealing  with  the 
feelings  of  others,  and  without  hypocrisy,  sycophancy,  or 
obtrusion.  This,  we  think,  is  at  once  sufficiently  inclusive 
and  exclusive.  It  excludes  a  great  many.  "We  cannot 
agree  that  Johnson  was  polite ;  that  is,  if  politeness  is  to  be 
distinguished  from  nobleness,  courage,  and  even  kindness 
of  heart ;  in  a  word,  from  everything  but  itself.  Burns  was 
polite,  when  jewelled  duchesses  were   charmed  with  his 


360  HUGH    MILLER. 

ways ;  Arnold  was  polite,  when  the  poor  woman  felt  that 
he  treated  her  as  if  she  were  a  lady;  Chalmers  was 
polite,  when  every  old  woman  in  Morningside  was  elated 
and  delighted  with  his  courteous  salute.  But  Johnson, 
who  shut  a  civil  man's  mouth  with,  "  Sir,  I  perceive  you 
are  a  vile  Whig,"  who  ate  like  an  Esquimaux,  who  deferred 
so  far  to  his  friends,  that  they  could  differ  with  him  only  in 
a  round-robin,  was  not  polite.  Politeness  is  the  last  touch, 
the  finishing  perfection,  of  a  noble  character.  It  is  the  gold 
on  the  spire,  the  sunlight  on  the  corn  field,  the  smile  on  the 
lip  of  the  noble  knight  lowering  his  sword  point  to  his 
ladye-love.  It  results  only  from  the  truest  balance  and 
harmony  of  soul.  We  assert  Hugh  Miller  to  possess  it. 
A  duke  in  speaking  to  him  would  know  he  was  speaking 
to  a  man  as  independent  as  himself;  a  boy,  in  expressing 
to  him  an  opinion,  would  feel  unabashed  and  easy,  from  his 
genial  and  unostentatious  deference.  He  has  been  accused 
of  egotism.  The  charge  is  a  serious  one ;  fatal,  if  it  can  be 
substantiated  in  any  offensive  degree,  to  politeness.  And 
let  it  be  fairly  admitted  that  he  knows  his  name  is  Hugh 
Miller,  and  that  he  has  a  colossal  head,  and  that  he  once 
was  a  mason;  his  foible  is  probably  that  which  caused 
Napoleon,  in  a  company  of  kings,  to  commence  an  anec- 
dote with  u  When  I  was  a  lieutenant  in  the  regiment  of  La 
Fere."  But  we  cannot  think  it  more  than  a  very  slight 
foible;  a  manly  sell-consciousness  somewhat  in  excess. 
His  autobiography  has  been  blamed  as  egotistic ;  we  think 
without  cause.  The  sketches  appear  to  us  much  the 
reverse.  They  are  almost  entirely  what  he  has  seen ;  what 
he  has  done  or  been  is  nowise  protruded.  And  shall  we 
blame  a  man  with  the  eye  and  the  memory  of  Hugh  Miller, 
for  leading  us  through  the  many  scenes  of  Scottish  life, 
which  he  knows  better  than  any  man,  because  he  does  so  in 


HUGH    MILLER.  361 

a  very  natural  and  orderly  way  ?  Wherever  he  is  egotistic, 
he  is  not  so  in  conversation— the  great  test  of  the  polite 
man.  Years  in  the  quarry  have  not  dimmed  in  Hugh 
Miller  that  finishing  gleam  of  genial  light  which  plays  over 
the  framework  of  character,  and  is  politeness.  Not  only 
did  he  require  honest  manliness  for  this ;  gentleness  was 
also  necessary.  He  had  both,  and  has  retained  them ;  and 
so  merits  fairly 

"  The  grand  old  name  of  gentleman." 


It  is  now  1857;  and  with  all  the  hopes  and  forebodings 
of  a  new  year,  there  mingles,  in  my  breast,  the  recollection 
of  a  kindness  no  more  to  be  experienced,  of  a  condescend- 
ing genial  helpfulness  no  longer  to  instruct,  of  a  steadfast 
nobleness  whose  living  presence  will  no  longer  animate  and 
cheer,  of  a  great  and  godly  man  who  has  passed  away.  In 
the  last  days  of  1856,  Hugh  Miller  died:  a  self-sacrificed 
martyr  to  science.  At  the  great  work  which  was  to  com- 
plete his  service  to  his  country  and  mankind,  he  toiled  on 
with  indomitable  resolution,  amid  the  paroxysms  of  fearful 
disease.  His  powerful  brain,  wearied  with  the  sustained 
tension  of  twenty  years,  recoiled  from  its  work,  and,  as  it 
were,  groaned  and  struggled  for  rest.  But  that  adaman- 
tine will  knew  no  flinching.  Ever,  as  the  paroxysm  passed 
by,  and  the  soft  glow  of  the  old  genius  spread  itself  again 
along  the  mind,  the  most  intense  and  unremitted  exertion 
was  compelled.    The  light  burnt  nightly  in  his  chamber, 

FIB8T  SERIES.  31 


362  HUGH    MILLER. 

long  after  the  midnight  hour,  as  Hugh  Miller  continued 
to  write,  the  body  failing,  the  nerves  fluttering,  the  brain 
held  to  its  work  only  by  that  indomitable  will.  He  feared 
madness  might  dash  the  pen  from  his  hand,  before  the 
last  line  was  traced.  But  the  work  was  finished.  On  the, 
last  day  of  his  life,  Hugh  Miller  said  it  was  done.  Mad- 
ness and  the  grave  could  not  at  least  deprive  him  of  that. 
Then,  as  might  have  been  expected,  despite  consultation 
with  a  physician,  the  paroxysm  returned  with  redoubled 
fury:  ere  it  again  subsided,  Hugh  Miller  was  no  more.  Let 
science  honor  her  too  devoted  son !  For  her  he  worked  on 
undaunted  under  the  thunder-cloud ;  the  lightnings  of  mad- 
ness flashing  ever  and  anon  around  him.  He  finished  his 
work ;  closed  the  book  ;  and  looked  up  as  if  defiant  of  the 
lightning.  But  it  came  down  and  smote  him ;  and  he  died, 
may  we  not  say,  the  greatest  of  the  martyrs  of  science. 


VII 

THE  MODERN  NOVEL. 

DICKENS— BUL  WE  R  —  THACKERAY. 

"Literature,"  says  so  distinguished  a  novelist  as  Sir 
Edward  Bulwer  Lytton,  "  commences  with  poetical  fiction, 
and  usually  terminates  with  prose  fiction.  It  was  so  in  the 
ancient  world  —  it  will  be  so  with  England  and  France. 
The  harvest  of  novels  is,  I  fear,  a  sign  of  the  approaching 
exhaustion  of  the  soil."  Of  whatever  the  harvest  spoken 
of  is  a  sign,  there  can  be  no  doubt  of  its  own  exuberance. 
The  novel  has  gone  far  to  supersede  all  other  forms  of  liter- 
ature ;  and  where  it  does  not  supersede,  it  has  an  influence. 
Philosophy  has  receded  into  the  background.  Poetry,  if  in 
itself  of  rare  perfection,  occupies  no  such  place  in  public 
estimation  as  it  did  in  the  days  of  Byron.  History  is 
specially  commended  as  being  equally  pleasant  reading  with 
fiction.  "We  have  dukes  and  earls  patronizing  mechanics' 
institutes  and  public  libraries ;  we  have  platform  speeches 
of  the  sweetest  eloquence,  setting  forth  the  way  in  which 
science  and  philosophy  are  to  be  used  in  the  self-culture  of 
readers;  we  have  the  shelves  well  filled  with  metaphysical, 
historical,  and  scientific  treatises.  In  eighteen  months  we 
•revisit  the  institution,  and  inspect  the  books.  The  philos- 
ophers, the  men  of  science,  the  historians,  have  enjoyed, 
like  kings  and  queens  at  their  country-seats,  an  honorable 


364  THE   MODERN    NOVEL. 

seclusion  :  the  novels  are  dog's-eared,  crumpled,  soiled,  from 
the  effects  of  affectionate  familiarity.  The  attraction  by 
which  the  young  aspirant  to  literary  distinction  is  at  present 
drawn  towards  fictitious  composition  seems,  at  first  sight, 
overpowering.  Who  would  not  enlist  in  an  army  in  which 
the  discipline  is  lax,  the  fighting  not  severe,  and  the  prizes 
dazzling,  rather  than  in  one  in  which  the  discipline  is  the 
rigid  restraint  of  truth,  the  fighting  a  stern  struggle  up  the 
rugged  crags  of  fact,  and  the  prizes  comparatively  poor  ? 
"With  all  our  enlightened  support  of  literature,  a  young 
man  who  would  at  present  determine  to  devote  himself, 
with  energies  untrammelled  by  any  other  profession,  with 
zeal  undivided  with  any  other  pursuit,  to  philosophy,  theol- 
ogy, social  science,  or  history,  trusting  thereto  for  his  daily 
bread,  would  do  so  at  the  risk  of  his  life.  We  know  an 
instance  of  a  young  literary  man  in  London,  of  distinguished 
ability  and  high  aims,  who  pursued  studies  of  an  important 
nature,  but  was  compelled,  at  intervals,  in  order  to  secure 
subsistence,  to  write  novels.  There  is  a  gentleman,  now  in 
Edinburgh,  whose  name  is  known  in  every  part  of  the 
island,  and  whose  works,  in  philosophy,  political  economy, 
and  apologetics,  are  of  high  standing,  who  yet,  we  are  con- 
fident, has  derived  no  pecuniary  profit  whatever  from  the 
main  labor  of  his  life,  and  finds  his  talents  of  pecuniary 
avail,  only  in  such  off-hand  work  as  occasional  lecturing  and 
contributions  to  the  journals.  Is  not  the  temptation  strong 
for  such  a  man,  to  ungird  the  armor  of  the  legionary,  and 
bind  on  the  light  arms  which  are  so  effective  ?  Why  should 
the  youthful  poet  keep  gazing  into  the  face  of  the  Beautiful, 
why  should  the  young  philosopher  dig  sedulously  in  the 
mines  of  thought  for  the  True,  if  literary  tinsel  will  bests* 
exchange  for  current  coin,  and  men  prefer  the  flowers  that 
grow  on  the  surface  to  the  metal  that  is  hidden  below  ? 


DICKENS  — BULWER— THACKERAY.  365 

These  remarks  may  seem  logically  to  require  an  unquali- 
fied denunciation  of  novels.  But,  for  many  reasons,  we 
should  deem  this  an  unwise  proceeding. 

In  the  first  place,  he  who  would  engage  in  the  highest 
literature  must  always  so  do  with  somewhat  of  the  spirit 
of  a  martyr.  It  has  ever  been  the  way  to  reward  the  most 
severe  and  noble  efforts  of  mind  in  a  manner  which  in 
itself  seems  paltry.  Milton  got  five  pounds  for  Paradise 
Lost.  We  cannot  too  often  recall  the  remarkable  fact.  If 
every  generation  of  mankind,  succeeding  the  appearance  of 
that  poem,  had  raised  to  its  author  a  new  statue  of  solid 
gold,  they  would  have  made  no  approach  to  paying  him. 
The  Dantes,  the  Keplers,  the  Pascals,  and  such  as  they,  are 
not  so  paid  for  their  mental  labors.  It  is  a  manifest  appoint- 
ment of  nature  that  they  should  not  be :  and,  let  us  say,  it  is 
a  right  appointment,  benign,  beautiful,  and,  for  the  men  who 
seem  passed  over,  an  appropriate  and  sublime  honor.  By 
their  capacity  for  such  work,  they  afford  a  reasonable 
presumption  that  they  can  rightly  estimate  and  duly  con- 
temn material  payment.  It  is  in  celestial  coin  that  they 
receive  their  wages.  If  they  know  not  what  this  is,  if  they 
scorn  it,  let  them  descend  to  lower  grades  of  intellectual 
labor ;  let  them  deal  in  goods  known  and  wanted  in  the 
market,  and  they  will  have  the  success  of  ordinary  traders. 
But  the  general  law  is  open  to  no  doubt :  the  highest  spir- 
itual employments  are  not  distinguished  by  yielding  large 
material  rewards.  The  fact  is  exemplified  in  the  case  of 
whole  professions.  Ministers  of  the  gospel  will  always  be 
paid,  on  an  average,  at  a  rate  in  no  degree  correspondent  to 
the  abilities  they  possess  or  the  functions  they  perform.  To 
men  of  learning,  to  professors  of  erudition  and  philosophy, 
the  same  rule  applies.  No  spectacle  appears  to  us  more 
truly  despicable  than  that  of  any  one  who  pretends  to  com- 
31* 


366  THE   MODERN   NOVEL. 

municate  to  men  the  higher  kinds  of  knowledge,  complaining 
that  he  is  not  paid  like  successful  confectioners  or  ballet 
dancers,  and  sending  round  his  hat  for  coppers.  The  man 
who  makes  it  his  sole  object  to  amuse,  and  has  talents  of 
extraordinary  power,  be  he  novelist  or  play  actor,  will  be 
more  handsomely  remunerated,  in  the  way  he  can  value, 
than  the  man  whose  ambition  it  is  to  elevate  and  improve 
his  fellows.  The  novelist  himself  who  aims  high,  both  in 
means  and  end,  must  submit  to  see  his  gains  small  in  pro- 
portion. The  public,  however,  let  us  add  in  a  corner,  has 
the  option  of  doing  that  for  men  of  lofty  aspirations,  which 
it  is  not  becoming,  which  in  some  sense  it  is  not  possible, 
for  them  to  do  for  themselves  ! 

But  it  may  be  questioned,  in  the  next  place,  whether  the 
facts  with  which  we  set  out,  —  facts  of  which,  in  themselves, 
there  cannot  be  any  doubt,  —  do  not  indicate  chiefly  a 
change  in  the  proportion  borne  by  one  set  of  literary  works 
to  another,  and  not  solely,  if  at  all,  a  diminution  either  in 
the  production  or  the  perusal  of  those  of  the  higher  orders. 
It  may  be  that  though  more  novels  are  produced  than  trea- 
tises in  history  or  science,  though  more  fiction  is  read  than 
philosophy  or  poetry,  the  reading  public  has  been  so  much 
increased  by  the  influence  of  novels,  that  the  condition  of 
higher  literature  is  really  improved.  And  to  this  consider- 
ation we  may  add  the  hope,  that  novels  may  in  future  do 
still  more  to  promote  this  end,  awakening  the  frivolous  and 
indifferent  to  some  sort  of  mental  exertion,  and  handing 
them  on  to  nobler  studies.  Still  further  it  may  be  here 
urged,  that  there  are  not  wanting,  at  present,  novels,  which 
themselves  convey  wholesome  instruction,  and  which  can 
hardly  exercise  an  enervating  influence.  Such  novels  as 
those  of  Currer  Bell,  Kingsley,  and  Thackeray,  are  not  to 
be  confounded  with  the  productions  of  the  Minerva  Press. 


DICKENS  —  BULWER  — THACKERAY.  367 

After  all,  the  most  pertinent  remark  which  can  be  made 
as  to  this  unexampled  efflorescence  of  fictitious  literature 
seems  to  be  that  it  is  a  fact,  and  that  it  may  be  pronounced 
unalterable.  This  alone  makes  it  worthy  of  consideration. 
It  were  very  strange,  too,  if  a  phenomenon  so  vast  in 
extent  and  so  powerful  in  influence,  had  no  real  meaning 
and  could  be  turned  to  no  account.  It  may  be  that,  by 
looking  into  the  matter  somewhat  closely,  we  may  discover 
some  principle  by  which  the  man,  who  is  conscientiously 
and  resolutely  bent  upon  a  self-culture  as  complete  as  his 
faculties  admit  and  his  time  affords,  may  safely  and  profit- 
ably undertake  an  incursion  into  fictitious  literature. 

What  is  a  novel  ?  The  question  seems  exceedingly  easy, 
and  may  be  so.  But  it  is  well  to  have  precise  ideas  as  to 
its  answer,  for  when  you  know  accurately  what  a  thing  is, 
you  have  got,  in  germ,  all  that  it  is  most  important  to 
know  concerning  it.     What,  then,  we  repeat,  is  a  novel? 

In  every  production  of  Art  there  are  two  principal 
elements,  whose  unity  gives  the  result.  The  one  is  the 
original  type  presented  in  nature,  the  other  the  modi- 
fication —  the  curtailment,  addition,  or  transformation  — - 
effected  by  the  free  will  and  imaginative  energy  of  the 
artist.  Thus,  in  the  art  of  painting,  the  type  from  which 
the  artist  sets  out  is  some  natural  appearance,  a  landscape, 
a  building,  a  face.  If  he  is  only  a  daguerreotypist,  he 
records  merely  the  literal  facts  of  nature  in  their  real 
localities.  If  he  is  a  true  artist,  the  daguerreotype  can  do 
no  more  than  furnish  him  with  studies,  and  only  when  he 
has  combined  these  as  he  chooses  and  breathed  into  them 
the  spirit  of  his  own  genius,  has  he  produced  a  picture.,  In 
all  Art  this  distinction  holds  good, 

It  is  not  difficult  to  discover  the  original  type  on  which 
the  novel  is  founded.     If  we  consider,  we  shall  find  some- 


368  THE    MODERN    NOVEL. 

thing  not  unlike  it  in  life,  though  by  no  means  the  same. 
The  direction  in  which  to  turn  is  manifestly  that  of  history ; 
the  first  thing  that  strikes  us  in  a  novel  is  its  narrative.  It 
may  be  profitable  to  look  for  a  moment  at  history.  If  he 
has  a  true  sense  of  his  Art,  the  historian  will  find  himself, 
in  certain  important  respects,  resembling  the  novelist.  We 
do  not  allude  to  his  depicting  manners,  or  adopting  a 
picturesque  style.  The  similarity  lies  deeper  ;  in  the  very 
materials  with  which  he  works.  In  the  life  of  nations,  as 
well  as  in  that  of  individuals,  are  found  circumstances 
corresponding  to  those  which  afford  the  novelist  his  color- 
ing, and  suggest  to  him  his  plot.  These  may  serve  the 
historical  artist  none  the  worse  that  the  laws  by  which  he 
works  are  those  of  stern  realism.  Incidents  more  stirring 
than  imagination  ever  dreamed,  characters  more  strange 
and  puzzling  than  novelist  ever  portrayed,  plot  more  dark 
and  mysterious  than  ever  artist  devised,  may  be  already 
provided  him.  He  may  lead  us,  in  earnest  curiosity,  along 
the  path  of  Providence,  not  blunting,  by  any  anachronism 
of  anticipation  or  disclosure,  the  feelings  of  wonder  and  ad- 
miration, with  which,  at  the  right  moment,  we  behold  the 
curtain  rise.  And,  be  it  remarked,  the  more  completely 
he  thus  imitates  the  recognized  method  of  the  novelist,  the 
more  emphatically  does  he  bring  before  us  the  great  lessons 
which  it  is  his  duty  to  teach.  In  the  warlike  contendings 
or  peaceful  labors  of  nations,  in  their  growth  and  decline,  in 
their  birth,  glory,  and  destruction,  certain  grand  monitions 
are  providentially  addressed  to  us,  constituting  one  principal 
portion  of  that  system  of  education,  practical  or  theoretic, 
by  which  nature  is  pervaded.  We  all  acknowledge  that 
the  office  of  the  historian  is  august  and  important.  But 
the  slightest  reflection  will  make  it  plain,  both  that  the 
sphere  of  the  historian  is  not  precisely  that  of  the  novelist, 


DICKENS— BULWER— THACKERAY.  369 

and  that  there  is  a  sphere  in  which  the  latter  may  convey 
instruction  of  a  value  equal  to  that  conveyed  by  the  former. 
The  historian  does  not  and  cannot  descend  into  domestic 
life.  Nations  in  their  national  capacity  and  in  their  national 
doings  are  his  theme ;  with  battles,  sieges,  treaties,  senates, 
cities,  he  deals.  He  may  paint  manners ;  but  only  in  the 
mass.  He  may  give  details  of  private  life;  but  only  to 
exhibit  the  hidden  strings  which  guide  the  men  who  guide 
nations.  But  domestic  life  has  also  its  instructive  lessons. 
Here,  too,  Providence  teaches.  In  the  festal  assemblage  and 
by  the  household  hearth,  beside  her  who  is  wreathed  with 
orange  flower  and  by  the  deathbed,  the  footsteps  of  Provi- 
dence may  be  traced,  the  voice  of  Providence  may  be  heard. 
Warnings,  examples,  encouragements,  intimations,  which,  if 
known,  prized,  and  used,  would  be  more  precious  than  rubies, 
are  being  ever  presented  in  the  common  course  of  life.  If  it 
is  right  to  strengthen  and  widen  our  powers  of  intellectual 
vision,  by  watching  the  dealings  of  God  with  nations,  it  is 
assuredly  right,  also,  to  have  an  accurate  and  extensive 
knowledge  of  domestic  life,  to  gain  a  wider  acquaintance, 
than  our  own  circle  affords,  with  the  perils  which  beset  our 
private  walk,  with  the  modes  in  which  the  problems  of 
individual  and  family  life  have  already  been  solved.  To 
occupy  a  field  thus  rich  and  thus  distinctly  marked  off,  the 
biographer  steps  forward.  And  it  will  not  be  called  in 
question  that,  in  the  biography,  the  original  type  of  the 
novel  is  found.  There  is,  however,  in  the  circumstances  of 
the  case,  a  reason  for  fictitious  biography,  which  does  not 
exist  for  fictitious  history.  The  most  interesting  and  in- 
structive series  of  incidents  may  occur  in  private  life,  yet 
cause  appear  why  the  actors  should  be  vailed  in  secresy. 
The  fictitious  form  provides  the  vail.  In  some  such  series 
of  incidents  as  we  have  supposed,  lies  the  realistic  ground- 


370  THE    MODERN   NOVEL. 

work  on  which  the  novel  should  be  constructed.  By  this 
it  is  connected  with  the  world  of  fact.  This  is  to  it  as 
the  knowledge  of  the  features  of  a  locality,  its  leading 
geological  lines,  its  distinctive  botanical  products,  is  to  the 
artist  who  paints  a  landscape.  If  the  novelist  proceeds 
without  such  realistic  basis,  his  work  is  sure  to  be  worth- 
less. The  wing  of  imagination  flaps  at  once  in  a  vacuum. 
Weak  sentimentality  takes  the  place  of  manly  feeling,  faded 
commonplace  is  offered  instead  of  fresh  truth,  the  whole 
wears  a  flabby,  sickly  aspect,  if  only  the  novelist  ignores 
fact  and  trusts  solely  to  fancy.  We  do  not  know  any 
instance  of  imaginative  power  on  which  we  would  more 
willingly  rely,  which  we  could  more  absolutely  trust,  than 
that  of  Dickens.  Yet  when  he  leaves  the  alleys  of  St. 
Giles  and  the  office  in  Bow  Street,  which  he  has  seen,  and 
sets  himself  to  depict  what  he  merely  imagines  to  exist, 
how  strange  is  the  work  he  produces !  Literature  does  not 
contain  a  more  false,  foolish,  preposterous  character  than 
Mrs.  Clennam.  Mr.  Dickens  fancied  this  must  be  wThat 
evangelical  religion  was ;  and  if  he  had  informed  us  that  a 
Fakir  or  other  Indian  devotee  swung  himself  daily  in  the 
air,  by  a  hook  attached  to  the  top  of  Nelson's  monument, 
he  would  not  have  committed  a  greater  absurdity.  We 
are  quite  sure  there  are  as  many  persons  in  England  who 
believe  they  will  go  to  heaven  by  swinging  by  the  foot,  as 
there  are  who  propose  to  compass  that  end  by  abstaining 
from  their  usual  allowance  of  oysters.  But  if  the  necessity 
of  a  realistic  basis  is  distinctly  recognized,  the  function  of 
the  novelist  is  vindicated  from  all  assault,  the  novel  is 
worthy  of  respect  and  attention.  The  nominally  fictitious 
author  becomes  the  recorder  of  Providence  in  domestic 
life,  the  historian  of  the  fireside,  the  philosopher  of  the 
family  circle.     The  recognition  of  this  necessity  has  of  late 


DICKENS  — BULWER  — THACKERAY.  371 

been  more  express  than  formerly.  The  temper  of  the  time 
sets  strongly  towards  rugged  truth  and  away  from  smooth, 
painted  falsehood.  But  no  recognition  of  it  could  be  too 
emphatic.  On  its  practical  acknowledgment  we  must  hang 
our  hope  for  the  production  of  a  literature,  in  name  and 
form,  for  obvious  and  weighty  reasons,  fictitious,  but  in 
reality  true,  and  an  honor  and  blessing  to  the  nation. 

But  the  novel  is  a  work  of  Art.  There  is  more  in  it 
than  bare  reality.  Of  this  fact  the  whole  history  of  fictitious 
composition  is  a  proof,  and  if  the  fact  has  been  so,  its 
theoretic  vindication  or  the  reverse  is  of  comparatively 
slight  importance.  Fact,  however,  and  theory  agree.  The 
novel  is  unquestionably  a  work  of  Art,  and,  being  so,  it 
must  exhibit  some  element,  for  which  we  can  find  no 
precise  equivalent,  though  there  may  be  suggestion  or 
analogue,  in  nature. 

The  novel,  as  we  saw,  differs  broadly  from  the  history. 
Its  theme  is  always  domestic  life,  however  the  domestic 
incidents  with  which  it  deals  may  be  affected  by  public 
events ;  just  as  history  is  always  national,  though  the  des- 
tinies of  nations  may  be  influenced  by  domestic  circum- 
stances. But  not  even  in  the  biography  is  there  the 
precise  counterpart  of  the  novel.  The  biography  is  spread 
over  the  whole  period  of  life.  Its  incidents  derive  their 
relative  importance  from  the  illustration  they  afford  of 
character. 

But  in  the  novel  a  particular  period  of  life  is  selected, 
the  incidents  are  grouped  round  one  centralizing  interest, 
and  the  narrative  stops  short  at  life's  grand  climacteric. 
What  is  this  interest  ?  What  this  climacteric  ?  It  is  love. 
We  must  consider  it  a  little. 

"  '  Love,  the  soul  of  soul,  within  the  soul, 
Evolving  it  sublimely.     First,  God's  love.' 


372  THE    MODERN    NOVEL. 

« And  next/  lie  smiled, « the  love  of  wedded  souls, 
Which  still  presents  that  mystery's  counterpart. 
Sweet  shadow-rose,  upon  the  water  of  life, 
Of  such  a  mystic  substance,  Sharon  gave 
A  name  to !  human,  vital,  fructuous  rose, 
Whose  calyx  holds  the  multitude  of  leaves,  — 
Loves  filial,  loves  fraternal,  neighbor-loves, 
And  civic,     *     *     *     all  fair  petals,  all  good  scents, 
All  reddened,  sweetened,  from  one  central  Heart  I'* 

Thus  writes  Mrs.  Barrett  Browning  in  her  latest  poem. 
If  the  first  poem  ever  composed  were  still  before  us,  should 
we  not  find  it  some  lilt,  of  joyfulness  and  tears,  sung  by 
primeval  lover  beside  the  trysting  tree  ?  There  are  feelings 
of  a  purely  spiritual  nature,  connecting  themselves  with 
man's  celestial  relations  and  eternal  destiny,  which  tran- 
scend all  that  pertain  to  earth.  But  of  those  which  belong 
distinctively  to  the  world  of  living  men,  whose  dwelling  is 
the  heart  that  beats  for  threescore  years  and  ten,  whose 
sphere  of  operation  is  between  the  silent  graves  and  the 
silent  stars,  the  greatest,  the  mightiest,  is  love.  The  scale 
of  human  emotion,  through  all  its  changes  of  gladness  and 
sorrow,  lies  between  the  silver  treble  of  love  and  the  deep 
bass  of  death.  The  fountain  of  life  rises  sunward,  and  the 
light  that  falls  on  its  white  foam  at  the  highest  point  is  love. 
The  hill  of  life  is  climbed  in  the  dewy  morning :  in  the  light 
of  noon,  on  the  green,  unclouded  summit,  the  loved  one  is 
met ;  as  evening  steals  on,  and  the  dew  begins  again  to  fall, 
the  descent  is  slowly  made  towards  the  grave  at  the  foot. 
Sometimes  death  starts  up  on  the  top,  and  chills  the  heart 
of  love  at  its  fullest  throbbing :  the  might  of  the  anguish  is 
then  measured  by  the  intensity  of  the  joy. 

However  we  may  represent  this  fact,  even  though  we 
may  be  moved  to  a  smile,  a  fact  it  is,  and  one  of  chief  im- 


DICKENS  —  BULWER  —  THACKERAY.  373 

portance.  In  the  Scriptural  view  of  man,  it  is  explicitly 
attested.  The  emotion,  of  which,  if  we  may  so  speak,  the 
final  end  is  marriage,  is  expressly  appointed  to  the  suprem- 
acy among  the  feelings  by  which  one  human  being  can  be 
attracted  towards  or  linked  to  another ;  and  the  arrange- 
ment of  the  social  system,  as  exhibited  in  history,  corre- 
sponds with  the  original  appointment.  Innumerable  as  are 
the  interests  which  there  circle,  various  as  are  the  orbits 
there  occupied,  they  all,  directly  or  indirectly,  own  the 
regulating  power  of  love. 

Turning  from  life  to  literature,  using  the  word  in  its  most 
comprehensive  sense,  the  same  fact  meets  us  in  broad  and 
clear  reflexion.  Love  was  the  main  theme  of  epic  poetry, 
and  may  be  called  the  sole  theme  of  the  lyre.  Around  love 
Tragedy  and  Comedy  alike  arranged  their  parts.  Here,  the 
lovers  sat  upon  the  dais,  crimson  broidered  with  gold,  and 
from  their  happy  faces  gleamed  out  a  light  on  all  around. 
Comedy  arranged  the  lights,  placed  the  surrounding  groups 
in  the  most  effective  positions,  appointed  the  music  and  the 
dancing,  and  showered  her  smiles  upon  the  happy  pair. 
There,  the  blue  of  love's  heaven  shone  pure  and  serene, 
above  the  summer  ocean  and  the  balmy  isle :  but  suddenly 
the  blissful  calm  was  swallowed  in  black,  firelit  tornado, 
and,  arrayed  in  the  trailing  draperies  of  storm,  Tragedy 
swept  by.  Take  love  out  of  literature,  and  all  of  it  which 
is  not.  strictly  scientific,  —  the  simple  statement  of  fact  and 
law,  —  all  of  it  that  lies  within  the  province  of  the  imagi- 
nation, falls  into  incoherence  and  disruption.  It  becomes  a 
system  of  which  the  gravitating  centre  has  been  unfixed. 
But  while  love  remains,  however  the  form  may  change,  the 
radical  characteristics  of  the  old  imaginative  literature  will 
survive.  Amid  the  multitudinous  activity,  and  wild,  free 
life  of  modern  times,  the  drama  and  the  epic  of  antiquity 

FIRST   SERIES.  32 


374  THE    MODERN    NOVEL. 

may  be  said  to  have  been  shaken  from  their  unities  and 
proprieties,  and  finally  dashed  into  fragments.  But  the 
joys  and  sorrows  of  love  with  which  they  were  concerned 
emerged  from  the  ruin,  and  commenced,  in  fresh  and  buoy- 
ant youth,  a  new  epoch  of  literary  representation  in  "the 
modem  novel. " 

The  novel,  therefore,  is  scientifically  definable  as  a  domes- 
tic history,  in  which  the  whole  interest  and  all  the  facts  are 
made  to  combine  in  the  evolution  of  a  tale  of  love.  A 
biographic  strain  of  which  the  key  note  is  love.  The  appli- 
cation of  terms  may  vary  to  any  extent,  but  we  are  con- 
vinced that  any  inquiry  into  the  nature  of  the  novel, 
bearing  reference  at  once  to  the  laws  of  Art  and  to  the  facts 
of  history,  will  conduct  to  a  conclusion  essentially  the  one 
with  this. 

It  would  appear  to  be  irrefragably  established  that  the 
love  story  is  no  mere  conventional  appendage  of  the  modern 
novel,  but  bound  up  in  its  essence.  The  passion  of  love  has 
been  indissolubly  connected  with  all  imaginative  literature. 
It  will  not,  on  a  deliberate  survey,  be  questioned  by  any, 
that  the  fictitious  literature  of  modern  times  is,  to  at  least  a 
large  extent,  the  more  formal  imaginative  literature  of 
antiquity,  accommodated  to  a  wider  audience  and  engaged 
in  by  a  larger  class  of  authors.  It  were  surely  too  bold  to 
affix  the  name  of  conventionalism  to  what  has  been  an 
unfailing  characteristic  of  the  most  popular  class  of  literary 
works,  and  which  we  found  correspondent  to  an  important 
fact  in  life. 

Have  we  not  found  a  clue  at  once  to  the  cause  of  the 
supreme  popularity  of  the  novel  with  readers,  and  to  the 
means  by  which  the  novelist  secures  this  popularity  ?  That 
ancient  theme,  to  which  the  hearts  of  the  old  Greeks  thrilled 
at  the  Olympic  Games,  and  which  fired  the  Arab  eye  at  the 


DICKENS  — BULWER  — THACKERAY.  375 

poetical  contest  in  the  desert,  before  the  days  of  Mahomet, 
has  been  scrambled  for  in  modern  times,  by  romance  poets 
and  novelists,  and  the  novelists  have  been  very  successful  in 
the  appropriation.  They  have  possessed  themselves  of  the 
irresistible  fascination :  they  wield  the  spell  which  was 
never  yet  broken.  The  sympathetic  imagination,  evoked 
by  the  novelist,  enables  his  reader  to  enjoy  the  happiness  of 
the  hero  and  heroine.  No  one  is  so  stupid  as  to  be  unable 
to  live  in  a  land  of  reverie  ;  the  difficult  thing  is,  amid  the 
buffeting  of  the  waves,  to  keep  the  foot  firm,  as  on  a  rock, 
on  the  present ;  therefore  the  novelist  dispenses  joy  to  the 
widest  class.  But  no  one  is  so  wise  as  to  resist  the  charm. 
The  philosopher  succumbs  to  it  as  fast  as  to  the  toothache, 
time  out  of  mind  the  sage's  vanquisher.  He  laughs  and 
weeps  with  the  lover  just  as  other  men. 

He  weeps. — Yes ;  but  may  not  this  give  us  pause  ?  The 
luxury  of  sorrow,  about  the  existence  of  which  there  is  not 
a  whit  more  doubt  than  about  that  of  the  luxury  of  joy, 
has  a  puzzling  look,  which  may  justify  us  in  turning  aside 
for  a  moment  to  consider  it.  The  pathos  which  wrings 
your  heart,  and  bathes  your  cheek  in  tears,  holds  you 
enchained  as  powerfully  as  the  gladness  which  makes  you 
laugh  for  joy.  Sympathetic  participation  is  here  out  of  the 
question.  You  rejoice  xoith  Shirley  and  Moore,  when  they 
at  last  beat  out  the  music  of  their  lives ;  but  you  cannot 
rejoice  with  Nancy  when  Sykes  murders  her.  Yet  the 
pleasure  of  tragedy,  while  of  a  more  august  and  solemn, 
seems  to  be  also  of  a  more  profound  character  than  that  of 
comedy.  We  venture  upon  an  explanation  of  the  fact. 
All  mighty  emotion  is  in  itself  pleasurable.  This  looks 
like,  but  is  not,  a  contradiction  in  terms.  Distress,  it  is 
true,  cannot  be  delightful ;  but  the  weeping  by  which  it  is 
relieved,  the  overflow  of  the  emotion,  is  pleasurable.    The 


376  THE   MODERN   NOVEL. 

fire  itself  bums  and  scathes  the  heart :  but  the  streaming 
of  the  lava  through  its  tear-channels  bears  away  the  woe, 
and  produces,  in  so  doing,  a  sensation  of  delight.  So  far 
there  can  be  no  dispute ;  the  psychological  fact  is  perfectly 
well  known.  But  may  it  not  be  applied  to  the  explanation 
of  that  singular  pleasure  with  which  we  are  concerned? 
Does  not  the  secret  of  all  the  joy  of  tragedy  and  pathos 
lie  in  the  skillful  opening  of  the  sluices,  by  which  the 
surcharged  fountains  of  the  heart  empty  themselves  in 
tears?  Is  not  the  flow  of  the  emotion  secured,  without 
the  suffering  of  the  pain?  The  cause  is  brought  into 
operation  by  imagination;  the  emotion  naturally  follows: 
but  the  surge  of  emotion  and  its  cause  are  precisely  pro- 
portioned to  each  other,  and  the  former  bears  the  latter 
fairly  out  of  the  heart.  The  difference  between  the  distress 
occasioned  by  literal  fact,  and  that  evoked  by  the  tragic 
artist,  may  be  clearly  perceived,  by  a  glance  at  the  scene 
to  which  reference  has  been  already  made,  the  murder 
of  Nancy  in  Oliver  Twist.  Let  one,  after  perusing  the 
description  given  by  Dickens,  reflect  for  a  moment  on  the 
possibility  that  such  an  incident  may  have  occurred  in 
actual  life.  He  instantly  experiences  a  thrill  of  regret  and 
dismay.  But  it  is  very  different  from. that  felt  while  he 
listened  to  Mr.  Dickens.  A  new  condition  affects  the  case. 
The  sorrow  is  anchored  in  the  heart  by  fact.  To  weep,  it 
is  true,  gives  relief:  weeping,  as  distinguished  from  not 
weeping,  sorrow  relieved  as  distinguished  from  sorrow 
unrelieved,  is  pleasurable:  but  the  knowledge  that  such 
girls  have  actually  been  killed  can  be  washed  out  by  no 
tears;  it  remains  there,  demanding  a  fresh  flow,  nay,  de- 
manding, to  relieve  the  grating  pain,  that  active  effort  be 
engaged  in,  to  put  such  catastrophes  beyond  the  limits  of 
possibility.    Imagination  in  the  one  case,  lulls  reason  asleep, 


DICKENS  — BULW  Eli  —  THACKERAY.  377 

and  produces  an  emotion  powerful  while  it  lasts ;  when 
reason  awakens,  the  man  declares  he  has  forgotten  himself, 
and  the  cause  and  the  emotion  pass  from  the  mind  together. 
In  all  cases,  whether  of  real  belief  or  factitious,  the  emotion 
in  itself  is  pleasurable :  in  each  case,  whether  it  overflows 
in  weeping  or  no,  it  relieves  the  heart :  but  in  the  one  case, 
the  pain  it  assuages  is  deeply  fixed  in  the  heart,  and  the 
distress  remains  long,  withstanding  the  alleviation :  in  the 
other,  the  emotion  bears  away  all  the  pain,  and  reason  closes 
behind  sorrow  the  gates  of  the  heart. 

But  besides  this  joy  of  sympathetic  participation  in 
happiness,  and  the  other  joy  of  deep  and  active  emotion, 
though  of  the  kind  occasioned  by  distress,  there  is  another 
which  it  is  in  the  power  of  the  novelist  to  confer  upon  his 
readers,  and  which,  as  representing  one  of  those  large 
classes  not  to  be  omitted  in  even  a  partial  view  of  the 
subject,  it  will  be  well  to  notice.  Like  his  ancient  brethren, 
the  epic  and  dramatic  poets,  the  novelist  calls  into  active 
operation  the  sympathies  of  approbation  and  disapprobation. 
He  has  at  his  disposal  the  princeliest  rewards  and  the  most 
severe  punishments ;  love  and  death  are  in  his  hands. 
These  he  dispenses  with  what  is  not  inappropriately  styled 
poetic  justice.  It  is  customary  to  rail  considerably  at  this 
idea  of  poetic  justice,  and  to  remark  that  life  is  sometimes 
not  quite  so  just  as  poetry.  Yet  it  lies  deep  in  the  nature 
of  man,  modified  as  it  is  by  the  circumstances  of  his  present 
existence,  to  find  in  poetic  justice  an  intense  pleasure. 
Virtue  consists  in  holding  to  the  Good  and  the  True  in 
the  face  of  opposition  ;  in  defying  temptation  ;  in  buffeting 
circumstance ;  in  smiling  up,  patient,  courageous,  thankful, 
through  the  drizzle  of  every  day  existence.  There  is  a 
notion  deep  in  the  hearts  of  all  of  us,  that  we  should  be 
what  we  ought*  were  circumstances  modified  to  suit  us, 
32* 


378  THE   MODERN   NOVEL. 

were  we  not  the  victims  of  a  luckless  destiny.  With  Becky 
Sharp,  we  think  we  could  be  good,  if  we  had  five  thousand 
a  year.  If  we  have  the  five  thousand,  we  would  be  virtuous 
upon  five-and-twenty  thousand.  We  should  cultivate  all 
sweet  and  generous  emotions  on  a  sunny  bank  in  Eden. 
We  might  take  a  place  in  the  church  triumphant,  but  the 
church  militant  is  left  to  its  own  battle.  In  one  word, 
there  is  beside  every  man  in  life,  a  spectre,  more  dire  than 
that  old  black  spectre,  Care,  which  restrains  his  generous 
impulses ;  the  spectre  Selfishness.  Remove  this  phantom, 
and  we  would,  as  a  rule,  obey  the  nobler  instinct.  In 
literary  representation,  it  is  removed.  We  do  not  recog- 
nize ourselves  in  nature's  mirror.  ,  Our  instincts,  unleashed 
by  selfishness,  fly  fiercely  at  us,  as  dogs  may  fly  at  their 
master  when  bathing,  and  when,  from  his  being  undressed, 
they  do  not  know  him.  Approbation,  therefore,  is  readily 
accorded  to  such  persons,  in  a  drama  or  novel,  as  deserve 
it.  And  approbation  is  always  pleasurable.  The  indigna- 
tion accompanying  disapprobation  is  to  some  extent  the 
same ;  and  partly  it  acts  in  the  manner  which  we  en- 
deavored to  define,  in  considering  the  luxury  of  distress. 
Along  both  with  the  approbation  and  the  disapprobation 
comes  an  insinuating  side  wind  of  self-applause,  conveying 
a  portion  of  all  the  approbation  felt  on  him  that  feels  it, 
and  casting  conscience  into  pleasant  slumber. 

The  modes  of  pleasing  his  readers  which  we  have  hitherto 
discovered  to  belong  to  the  novelist,  pertain  primarily  to 
that  element  in  the  novel,  which  is  contributed  by  Art,  in 
the  exercise  of  her  inalienable  right  to  mould  nature  to  suit 
her  purposes,  to  deck  her  out  in  what  new  fascinations,  to 
inspire  her  with  what  new  thought,  the  artist  chooses.  But 
the  delineation  of  reality  itself  is  a  source  of  real  and  potent 
pleasure.    Of  the  enjoyment  derived  from  what  is  strictly 


DICKENS  — BULWER  — THACKERAY.  379 

called  imitation  in  pictorial  Art  —  from  momentarily  mis- 
taking one  thing  for  another  —  we  do  not  now  speak.  We 
allude  to  the  satisfaction  experienced  when  literary  descrip- 
tion sets  vividly  before  us  any  scene,  face,  or  incident, 
which,  in  actual  existence,  would  not  in  any  measure  arrest 
us.  Mr.  Dickens  interests  us  in  the  description  of  a  thread- 
bare coat,  on  which  our  glance  would  not  have  lingered  for 
a  moment.  Mr.  Thackeray  keeps  us  pleasantly  entertained, 
in  the  presence  of  persons,  whom,  in  actual  life,  we  should 
find  insufferably  tedious.  "A  touch  of  nature  makes  the 
whole  world  kin."  When  we  recognize  accurate  descrip- 
tion of  fact  in  any  literary  work,  we  are  apt  to  forget 
all  other  qualities  in  our  abounding  delight.  No  doubt 
this  pleasure  depends  partly,  if  not  entirely,  on  sympathy 
with  the  exertion  of  human  power ;  but  the  fact  is  suffi- 
cient for  us,  and  we  shall  not  tarry  to  discuss  its  theory. 

We  have  already  ventured  to  hint  a  rule,  to  enunciate  a 
principle,  by  which  the  novel  may  be  tested,  its  dross  dis- 
covered and  rejected,  its  sterling  metal  discerned  and  ap- 
propriated. We  have  found  it  made  up  of  a  real  and  an 
ideal  element.  To  investigate  the  connection  between  the 
two  would  lead  us  into  deep  and  protracted  discussion. 
But  so  much  is  known  of  the  relation  borne  by  the  one 
to  the  other,  that  strength  of  realism  is  the  surest  pledge 
of  strength  in  the  exercise  of  the  pure  imagination.  Let 
the  demand  made  of  novels  therefore  be,  life,  life,  and 
again,  life ;  truth  in  the  delineation  of  character,  truth  in 
portraying  passion,  truth  in  the  direction  given  to  the 
reader's  sympathies.  The  novelist  may  dispose  his  person- 
ages as  he  will,  but,  once  he  has  disposed  them,  they  must 
act  in  accordance  with  human  nature  and  the  facts  of  life. 
Our  space  forbids  any  attempt  to  draw  all  the  distinctions 
which  it  might  be  useful  here  to  lay  down.     But  the  prac- 


380  THE   MODERN   NOVEL. 

tical  test  we  offer  will  be  found  not  to  fail.  It  is  possible, 
indeed,  that  the  novelist  may  accurately  narrate  facts,  yet 
select  such  facts  as  ought  not  to  be  brought  forward  into 
observation.  In  some  instances,  these  may  come  under  the 
head  of  gross  immorality,  in  which  case  they  must  be  sim- 
ply condemned  and  scorned.  In  others,  they  may  be  of 
an  abnormal  and  exceptional  sort,  beyond  the  legitimate 
province  of  Art.*  Of  such  we  cannot  speak  here;  but 
nothing  we  could  discover  regarding  them  would  lead  us 
to  doubt  the  general  principle,  that  truthful  delineation  of 
life  implies  power  in  the  writer  and  wholesomeness  for  the 
reader.  With  this  in  his  hand,  discreetly  borne,  any  one 
may  venture  into  the  domain  of  fictitious  literature. 

We  say  the  novelist  may  adjust  the  relations  of  his  char- 
acters as  he  pleases.  He  is  of  course  bound  down  by  cer- 
tain laws  of  probability  and  natural  fitness ;  but,  on  the 
whole,  he  may  modify  circumstances  to  his  mind,  if  he 
correctly  and  correspondingly  modifies  the  actings  of  his 
personages.  It  is  a  poor  error,  to  be  turned  from  essen- 
tial truth  by  the  thin  veil  of  fictitious  form.  Whether  such 
a  man  as  Othello  lived  or  no  is  of  little  consequence ;  that 
is,  it  matters  little  whether  his  name  was  Othello,  whether 
he  was  by  birth  a  Moor,  whether  he  served  the  Venetians. 
Wherever  a  warm,  impulsive,  passionate  nature,  noble  and 
generous  to  the  core,  is  subdued  by  love  and  maddened  by 
jealousy,  the  Othello  of  Shakspeare  will  appear.  Romeo 
and  Juliet  may  never  have  trod  the  streets  of  Verona ;  but 
wherever  love  exerts  its  strange,  transforming  power,  there 
will  be  Romeos  and  Juliets.  The  intense  burning  of  Shak- 
speare's  truth  forces  its  way,  and  shines  out  clear  upon 
us,  through  geographical  mistakes,  anachronisms,  and  the 

*  See  the  Essay  on  Ellis,  Acton,  and  Currer  Bell. 


DICKENS  — BULWER  — THACKERAY.  381 

wildest  play  of  the  imagination.  Prospero  is  none  the 
less  a  man,  that  he  dwells  in  an  enchanted  island  and  has 
dealings  with  Ariel  and  Caliban.  The  angelic  love  and 
pity  which  unite  in  the  smile  and  the  tear  of  Cordelia  are 
most  true.  The  fiendish  malignity  in  the  eye  and  on  the 
brow  of  Iago  is  also,  alas  !  true.  Lear  is  as  a  great  ship, 
tossing  in  a  mighty  wind,  but  in  such  a  tempest  precise- 
ly so  would  such  a  ship  rock  and  strain. 

This  matter  of  truth  in  the  delineation  of  character,  is 
of  first  rate  importance  in  estimating  the  value  of  any 
work  of  fiction.  It  may  be  of  use  to  name  a  few  of  the 
more  common  errors  fallen  into  in  this  department.  In 
the  first  place,  men  are  apt  to  be  converted  into  mere 
embodiments  of  single  passions.  Life  is  represented  as  a 
wild  hurly-burly  of  passionate  excitement.  No  allowance, 
or  insufficient  allowance,  is  made  for  the  continual  small 
rain  of  custom  and  habit,  which  so  cools  the  heated  brain 
in  every  day  existence.  Next,  there  is  a  peculiar  liability 
to  failure,  in  what  might  be  called  the  right  depicting  of 
silence.  Men,  it  is  well  known,  when  they  feel  most 
deeply  are  not  apt  to  be  loud  in  the  communication  of 
their  feelings.  If  they  are  men  of  action,  they  are  still  less 
likely  to  be  loquacious.  But  how  is  the  poor  novelist  to 
get  on  without  his  noisy  dialogue  and  sounding  soliloquy  ? 
Again,  we  meet  with  mere  oafs  and  oddities,  fit  inmates  of 
Bedlam,  or  such  as  inhabit  travelling  caravans.  It  cannot 
be  doubted  that  these  are  almost  entirely  beyond  the  legit- 
imate province  of  the  novelist.  Last  of  all,  an  error,  pre- 
cisely the  reverse  of  that  with  which  we  set  out,  is  often 
committed.  An  exclusively  intellectual  nature,  a  superhu- 
man superiority  to,  or  inhuman  absence  of,  passion,  is 
imputed  to  the  supposititious  characters. 

All  these  errors,  variously  combined  and  modified,  are 


382  THE   MODERN   NOVEL. 

abundantly  represented  in  the  novels  of  the  Minerva  Press. 
That  this  class  of  novels  still  exists  is  too  evident :  but  it 
does  not  now  occupy  any  seat  of  honor,  and  no  Monk 
Lewis  will  arise  to  rescue  it  from  merited  disdain.  If  we 
consider  it  well,  we  shall  find  that  its  absurdities  are,  on  the 
whole,  traceable  to  an  absence  of  that  sound,  basing  realism, 
which  we  have  praised  so  highly.  It  exhibited,  on  a  grand 
scale,  the  sickliness,  the  foolish  vagaries,  of  an  imagination 
not  walking  constantly  with  life.  It  rendered  an  invaluable 
service  to  criticism,  by  furnishing  an  incomparable  example 
of  those  false  sources  of  popularity,  those  exaggerated  de- 
scriptions of  passion,  those  morbid  excitements,  those 
modish  ideals,  —  of  honor,  of  beauty,  of  picturesqueness,  of 
sublimity,  —  which  may,  for  a  time,  secure  unbounded 
success,  but  which,  having  no  root  in  nature,  are  fleeting  as 
the  whims  they  pamper.  No  critic  can  henceforward  be  at 
a  loss  for  specimens  of  sentimentality,  theatricality,  fustian, 
and  the  mock  sublime. 

Since  nature  alone  affords  inexhaustible  variety,  the 
Minerva  Press  novel  becomes  soon  recognizable,  by  the 
recurring  circle  of  its  plots  and  characters.  The  book 
opens  with  an  atrocious  murder.  A  body  is  found  in  some 
pond,  or  river,  or  dungeon,  or  in  the  mysterious  glade  of 
some  haunted  wood.  The  reader  must  be  particularly  on 
his  guard  here  against  jugglery.  Unless  he  is  genuine 
Yorkshire,  a  man  whom  he  believed  dead  will  surely  arise 
to  his  discomfiture  in  after  days,  heading  some  band  of 
robbers,  and  performing  all  manner  of  truculent  work. 
The  reader  must  insist  upon  seeing  the  coffin  nailed  down 
and  committed  to  the  grave ;  if  the  death  has  been 
hanging,  he  must  watch  by  the  fatal  tree,  at  least  three 
hours,  to  certify  himself  that  injured  innocence  is  not  cut 
down  before  life  is  extinct;   he  must  inspect  the  throat, 


DICKENS  — BULWER  — THACKERAY.  383 

to  see  that  no  iron  ring  has  been  inserted  to  cheat  the  hang- 
man. However,  be  it  agreed  that  there  is  a  murder,  and 
a  mysterious  one.  The  guilt  of  it  somehow  casts  a  dark 
shadow  around  some  sweet  Adeline  or  Angelina,  who  is 
either  accused  while  innocent,  or  defrauded  by  cruel  rela- 
tives who  have  done  the  deed.  In  process  of  time,  some 
good-looking,  gallant,  mustachioed  Herbert,  or  Lionel,  or 
Clifford,  rights  the  oppressed,  sets  all  in  train  about  the 
murder,  talks  the  highest  sentiment,  and  marries  Angelina. 
This  instructive  narrative  is,  of  course,  enlivened  by  a  due 
allotment  of  night  attacks,  tapers  twinkling  in  ruins  in  lone 
woods,  rapturous  ejaculations,  superhuman  devotions,  and 
valiant  deaths.  The  novelist  amends  nature,  but  not  in  a 
cunning  or  admirable  manner ;  not  in  accordance  with  the 
deeper  laws  of  nature  itself,  with  which  it  is  well  for  Art 
always  to  consort,  but  in  accordance  with  the  requirements 
of  mode,  in  subservience  to  the  trick  o'  the  time.  He 
improves  men  in  the  manner  of  the  applauded  French 
dramatist,  who  made  men  of  the  old  Romans,  by  putting 
them  in  court  dresses  and  presenting  them  at  Versailles. 
To  this  class  of  novels  appears  to  belong  the  whole  series 
bearing  the  title  of  Mysteries,  whether  of  Paris,  of  London, 
or  Udolpho.     Requiescant ! 

The  three  greatest  living  novelists  are  Mr.  Dickens,  Sir 
Edward  Lytton  Bulwer,  and  Mr.  Thackeray. 

We  cannot  undertake  to  say  how  much  of  the  popularity 
of  Mr.  Dickens  is  owing  to  that  exertion  of  his  genius  which 
is  in  itself  highest,  and  how  much  to  that  large  class  of. 
cases,  in  which,  as  must  appear  to  a  sound  criticism,  he  has, 
if  not  subjected  his  genius  to  dishonor,  at  least  permitted  it 
to  indulge  in  child's  play.  It  is  not  for  him  to  depend  on 
the  delineation  of  those  personal  eccentricities,  which  Sterne 
called    hobby-horses,    Jonson    humors     and    which    Mr., 


381  THE    MODERN    NOVEL. 

Macaulay  has  so  finely  characterized  in  his  essay  on  Fanny 
Burney.  The  Minerva  Press  itself  might  be  challenged  to 
produce,  from  a  like  number  of  volumes,  a  number  of  oafs, 
deformed  persons,  idiots,  and  monomaniacs,  equal  to  that 
which  can  be  collected  from  the  works  of  Mr.  Dickens. 
Consider  the  fat  boy  in  Pickwick.  What  an  exquisite  ob- 
servation was  required,  in  order  to  discriminate  from  his 
fellows  that  delicately  marked  character  ;  what  a  fine  touch 
was  necessary  to  set  distinctly  on  the  canvas  that  instruc- 
tive and  charming  personage  !  Tupman  is  simply  a  man 
of  "  humor  "  in  Ben  Jonson's  sense.  So  is  Winkle.  Turn- 
ing to  the  author's  later  works,  the  same  characteristic  is 
presented.  Skimpole,  in  Bleak  House,  is  an  oddity.  Rich- 
ard is  a  nonentity,  with  a  foible  or  two  which  might  have 
cost  him  his  freedom  and  secured  him  lodging  in  a  lunatic 
asylum.  The  little  mad  woman,  the  repulsive  being  who  is 
destroyed  by  spontaneous  combustion,  the  brutalized  old 
miser,  and  so  on,  all  belong  to  the  same  class.  Boythorn 
must  have  a  canary  to  perch  about  his  person.  Jarndyce 
must  have  idiosyncrasies  about  the  growlery  and  the  east 
wind.  Surely  Mr.  Dickens  does  not  confer  the  highest 
honor  upon  his  genius,  when  he  sets  it  to  such  tickling  of 
the  fancy  as  this. 

And  his  genius  is  worthy  of  honor.  No  writer  could  be 
named  on  whom  the  indefinable  gift  has  been  more  mani- 
festly conferred.  His  early  works  are  all  aglow  with  genius. 
The  supreme  potency  with  which  he  commands  it,  is  shown 
in  the  total  absence  of  effort,  in  the  classic  chasteness  and 
limpid  flow,  of  thought,  fancy,  and  diction.  You  are  in  a 
meadow  just  after  dawn ;  the  flowers  are  fresh  as  if  they 
had  awakened  from  slumber,  and  the  dew  is  on  them  all. 
A  word,  an  idea,  a  glimpse  of  beauty,  is  always  at  hand ; 
the  writer  never  tarries  a  moment ;  yet  there  is  no  display, 


DICKENS  — BULWER  — THACKERAY.  385 

no  profusion,  of  opulence.  You  do  not  see  him  waving  the 
wand ;  the  tear  or  the  smile  is  on  your  cheek  before  you 
are  aware. 

The  distinctive  power  of  Dickens  lies,  we  think,  in  a  sym- 
pathy of  extraordinary  range,  exquisite  delicacy,  and  mar- 
vellous truth.  He  does  not  so  much  look,  with  steady, 
jmparticipating  gaze,  until  he  knows  and  remembers  the 
£xact  features  of  life :  he  feels.  With  all  human  sorrow  he 
could  weep ;  with  all  human  mirth  he  could  laugh ;  and 
when  he  came  to  write,  every  emotion  he  aimed  at  exciting 
was  made  sure,  by  being  first  experienced  in  his  own  breast. 
[t  was  not  with  the  individual  man,  in  the  wholeness  of  his 
life,  in  the  depths  of  his  identity,  that  he  naturally  con- 
cerned himself.  It  was  kindness,  rather  than  the  one  kind 
man,  that  he  saw.  It  was  mirth,  rather  than  the  whole 
character  which  is  modified  by  humor.  Qualities,  capacities, 
characteristics,  rather  than  complete  men,  glassed  them- 
selves in  the  mirror  of  his  clear  and  open  soul.  With  all 
his  accuracy  in  detailed  portraiture,  it  is  a  superficial  per- 
ception of  the  order  of  his  genius,  which  does  not  see  that 
its  power  rested  naturally  less  on  realism,  than  on  a  peculiar, 
delicate,  and  most  captivating  idealization.  Pickwick,  at 
ieast  in  the  whole  earlier  part  of  his  history,  is  an  impos- 
sible personage.  He  belongs  to  broad  farce.  But  we  laugh 
at  his  impossible  conversation  with  the  cabman.  We  laugh 
at  his  impossible  credulity  as  he  listens  to  Jingle.  We 
iaugh  at  his  impossible  simplicity  at  the  review.  The  far- 
famed  Sam  Weller,  too,  corresponds  to  no  reality.  The 
Londoner  born  and  bred  is  apt  to  be  the  driest  and  most 
uninteresting  of  beings.  All  things  lost  for  him  the  gloss 
of  novelty  when  he  was  fifteen  years  old.  He  would  suit 
the  museum  of  a  nil  admirari  philosopher,  as  a  specimen, 
shrivelled  and  adust,  of  the  ultimate  result  of  his  principle. 

FIRST   SERIES.  33 


THE   MODERN    NOVEL. 


But  Dickens  collected  more  jokes  than  all  the  cabmen  in 
London  would  utter  in  a  year,  and  bestowed  the  whole 
treasure  upon  Sam.  His  eye  was  far  too  acute  for  the 
comical  to  let  it  rest  on  any  one  funny  man.  In  the  case 
of  those  of  his  characters  whom  we  are  simply  to  admire 
and  love,  the  same  distinctive  mode  of  treatment  is  exhib- 
ited. Rose  Maylie  and  Esther  Summerson  are  breathing 
epitomes  of  the  tendernesses,  the  sweetnesses,  the  beauties, 
of  life.  Oliver  Twist  concentrates  the  single  good  qualities 
of  a  hundred  children.  The  kind-hearted  man,  Dickens's 
stock  character,  be  his  name  Pickwick,  Jarndyce,  or  Clen- 
nam,  seems  always  radically  the  same,  and  corresponds  well 
enough  with  our  theory.  Perhaps  it  is  essential  deficiency 
in  the  highest  power  of  individualization,  which  drives  Mr. 
Dickens,  it  may  be  unconsciously,  to  affix,  by  way  of  labels, 
to  the  personages  of  his  story,  those  insignificant  peculiari- 
ties which  all  can  perceive. 

Amid  the  tumult  and  distracting  blaze  of  his  fame,  one 
is  by  no  means  safe  from  the  blunder  of  overlooking  the 
kernel  of  genuine  and  precious  humanity,  of  honest  kind- 
liness, of  tender  yet  expansive  benignity,  which  is  in  the 
centre  of  Dickens's  being.  His  nature  must  originally 
have  been  most  sweetly  tuned.  He  must  from  the  first 
have  abounded  in  those  qualities,  which  are  so  beautiful 
and  winning  when  combined  with  manly  character  and 
vigorous  powers ;  a  cheerful  gentleness,  a  loving  hopeful- 
ness, a  willingness  to  take  all  thh/gs  and  men  for  the 
best,  an  eye  for  the  loveable;  supi  a  disposition  as  one 
finds  in  Goldsmith,  a  passionate  admiration  of  happy 
human  faces,  a  delight  in  the  sports  and  laughter  of  chil- 
dren. He  has  always,  too,  been  earnestly  desirous  to  pro- 
mote the  welfare  of  men,  to  remove  abuses,  to  do  practical 
good.     In  the  conduct  of  Household  Words,  it  is  easy  to 


DICKENS  — BULWEK  — THACKERAY.  387 

see,  he  has  ever  had  his  eye  on  the  practical,  coming  down 
heartily  now  on  one  social  wrong  or  absurdity,  now  on 
another,  the  manner  perhaps  not  always  unexceptionable, 
the  spirit  always  right. 

His  stepping  forward  to  aid  the  Administrative  Reform 
Association  was  very  characteristic,  and  strikingly  indi- 
cated the  practicality  and  nobleness  of  his  nature.  That 
miserable  association  could  expose  the  evils  of  malad- 
ministration only  as  the  Helot  could  expose  the  evils  of 
drunkenness.  But  Dickens  could  not  sit  apart  in  the 
approved  literary  fashion.  When  men  arose  visibly,  and 
declared  it  their  wish  and  endeavor  to  bring  talent  into 
the  councils  of  the  nation,  they  could  not,  of  course,  look 
for  any  aid  from  him  who  had  been  preaching  hero-worship 
and  the  importance  of  finding  talent  for  the  nation  all  his 
days.  Mr.  Carlyle  was  quiet.  Mr.  Maurice  published  a 
weak  and  windy  pamphlet,  to  the  effect,  of  course,  that 
you  both  should  and  should  not  support  Administrative 
Reform.  Dickens  simply  attempted  to  render  some  prac- 
tical assistance.  Thus  he  has  ever  acted.  A  pure  white 
flame  of  ambition  to  do  practical  good  has  ever  burned 
steadily  in  his  breast,  and  no  blustering  applause,  no  favor- 
ing fortune,  could  dim  its  brightness.  It  is  a  consideration 
of  this  fact,  associated  with  that  of  his  warm  and  generous 
sympathy  with  every  emotion  he  believes  at  once  noble  and 
sincere,  which  makes  it  so  mournful  that  Dickens  has  never 
really  in  any  sense  known  what  true  evangelical  Christian- 
ity is.  The  most  earnest  and  exalted  feeling  that  dwells  in 
the  human  breast  is  to  him  strange  and  inconceivable.  He 
has  had  no  glimpse  of  the  beauty  and  joy  of  holiness.  The 
zeal  which  has  sent  hundreds  from  the  luxuries  and  adula- 
tions of  civilization,  to  die,  with  wasted  cheek  and  burning 
brow,  on  the  sterile  sands  of  moral  and  physical  desolation, 


388  THE   MODERN   NOVEL. 

is  to  him  a  delusion  and  absurdity.  The  delight  that  can 
be  found  in  the  sabbatic  calm  of  devotion,  the  solace  and 
blissful  rest  of  worship,  are  to  him  hypocritical  affectations 
or  wholly  unknown.  He  has  indeed  felt  his  heart  drawn 
out  in  sympathy  towards  the  perfect  humanity  of  the 
Saviour,  towards  His  tender  compassion  and  infinite  self- 
sacrificing  love :  but  of  the  religion  of  Jesus  in  its  truest 
form  now  extant  he  knows  only  a  painful  and  revolting 
caricature. 

Sir  Edward  Bulwer  Lytton  seems  to  have  been  adapted 
by  nature  to  succeed  as  a  novelist ;  and  he  has  succeeded. 
The  characteristic  of  his  mind  is  diffused  and  comprehen- 
sive energy.  Neither  emotionally  nor  intellectually,  is  Sir 
Edward's  mind  determined,  with  overwhelming  force,  in 
one  direction.  The  result  has  been  that  neither  in  the 
province  of  pure  imagination,  nor  in  that  of  pure  intellect, 
has  he  attained  the  highest  degree  of  excellence.  As  a 
thinker,  men  will  not  accept  him  for  a  guide ;  as  a  poet, 
he  has  failed.  The  novel  is  in  some  respects  a  debatable 
region,  between  the  spheres  of  the  philosophic  thinker  and 
the  poet.  In  the  department  of  the  novel  he  has  accord- 
ingly won  very  distinguished  honor.  The  creations  of  his 
fertile  mind,  decked  out  in  the  fairest  colors,  float  between 
the  domains  of  unimaginative  prose  and  truly  imaginative 
poetry.  The  rhythmic  melody,  the  heaven-kindled  en- 
thusiasm, the  deep,  unfeigned  faith,  which  pervade  the 
prose  of  Milton  are  absent  from  his  works ;  the  penetrat- 
ing logic  of  Butler,  the  determined  inquisition  of  Foster, 
are  alike  foreign  to  him;  but  his  prose  holds  in  solution 
about  as  much  poetry  as  prose  can,  and  his  novels  contain 
about  as  much  thought  as  readers  will  endure. 

The  special  ability  of  Bulwer  appears  to  lie  in  the  delin- 
eation of  that  passion  with  which  the  novel  is  so  deeply 


DICKENS  —  BULWER-  THACKERAY.  389 

concerned,  the  passion  of  love.  All  true  and  manly  pas- 
sions, let  it  be  said,  are  honored  and  illustrated  in  his 
pages.  But  he  stands  alone  among  novelists  of  his  sex  in 
the  portraiture  of  love,  and  specially  of  love  in  the  female 
breast.  The  heroism,  the  perfect  trust  the  strength  in  death, 
are  painted  by  him  with  a  sympathetic  truth  for  which  we 
know  not  where  to  seek  a  parallel.  The  effect  of  Eugene 
Aram's  speech  at  his  trial,  upon  Madeline,  his  betrothed, — 
the  calm,  beautiful,  satisfied  smile,  which  lit  up  her  wan 
features,  —  is  a  golden  letter  from  the  very  handwriting 
of  nature.  Then,  where,  out  of  Shakspeare,  can  we  find 
such  a  series  of  female  portraits  as  those  in  Rienzi  f  One 
scarce  knows  to  which  of  the  masterly  delineations  to  ac- 
cord the  palm.  There  is  the  weak,  womanly  Adeline, 
strong  only  in  love,  able  to  die  beautifully,  but  not  to  live 
well.  In  Irene,  there  is  love's  complete,  ineradicable  de- 
votion, all-subduing,  spontaneous,  self-sacrificing.  In  Nina, 
proud  love  gazes,  self-reliant,  and  self-satisfied,  on  all  the 
world  around,  but  sinks  in  womanly  tenderness  on  the 
breast  of  the  loved  one.  Adeline  is  the  soft,  flower-like 
woman,  growing  fair  in  the  calm  summer  radiance,  but 
withering  in  the  wintry  blast.  Irene  is  the  human  angel, 
of  whom  poets  have  so  long  sung.  Nina  is  the  queen, 
ready  to  live  with,  or  die  for,  her  husband-king.  Rienzi 
himself  is  nobly  imagined,  endeavoring  to  tread  the  surges 
and  engulfed.  ^ 

Mr.  Thackeray  is,  as  a  novelist,  so  pointed  and  unmis- 
takable a  contrast  to  Mr.  Dickens,  that  it  is  interesting  to 
find  them  writing  at  the  same  time.  Thackeray  is  as  little 
of  an  idealizer  as  it  seems  possible  to  be,  if  you  write  novels 
at  all.  He  cuts  into  conventionalism  so  daringly,  that  you 
fear  sometimes,  as  when  he  gives  you  a  novel  without  a 
hero,  that  he  goes  too  far,  and  puts  in  peril  the  essence  of 


390  THE    MODERN    NOVEL. 

his  Art.  If  he  does  idealize,  it  is  not  in  the  manner  of 
Dickens,  but  in  one  strikingly  different.  He  selects  charac- 
ters as  Dickens  selects  characteristics.  But  he  depends 
for  success  not  on  the  power  of  his  personages  to  evoke 
sympathy,  negative  or  positive,  but  on  their  strict  corre- 
spondence with  fact.  It  cannot,  perhaps,  be  said  that  he, 
any  more  than  Mr.  Dickens,  reaches  the  Shakspearean  sub- 
stratum of  character.  His  eye  is  that  of  an  artist.  It  has 
been  trained  to  take  in  the  whole  aspect  of  the  outer  man, 
not  only  in  the  minutiae  of  his  dress,  but  in  the  whole 
monotonous  circumstance  of  his  every  day  life.  His  popu- 
larity is  the  most  powerful  evidence  to  which  one  could 
easily  point,  of  the  capacity  residing  in  the  exhibition  of 
bare,  or  even  repulsive  fact,  to  interest  mankind.  It  is  said 
that  Thackeray  abandoned  the  career  of  an  artist,  because, 
according  to  his  own  avowal,  he  could  only  caricature. 
He  felt  the  absence  of  the  higher  idealizing  power.  His 
novels  exhibit  the  radical  qualities  which  would  have  dis- 
tinguished his  pictures.  It  is  not  emotionally  that  we 
regard  them.  They  call  forth  no  glow  of  admiration,  no 
i  warm,  loving  sympathy,  no  wonder,  no  reverence.  He 
makes  his  appeal  to  sterner,  colder  powers,  to  reflection,  to 
the  cynic's  philosophy,  to  contempt.  It  may  be  better, 
higher,  more  noble  and  self-denying,  in  him,  to  do  so ;  but; 
the  fact  is  patent.  And  its  inevitable  consequence  has 
been  and  will  be,  a  popularity  not  so  wide,  a  command 
over  the  heart  not  so  great,  as  those  of  men  who  permit 
fancy  to  lay  on  color,  and  imagination  to  heighten  life. 
The  non-existent  Pickwick  will  always  be  more  deeply 
loved  than  the  actual  Dobbin.  The  positive  folly  and 
knavishness  of  Job  and  Jingle  will  always  interest  more 
than  the  dismally  negative  stupidity  of  Jos.  The  metallic 
heartlessness,  the  machine-like  selfishness,  of  Becky,  marvel- 


DICKENS  — BULWER  — THACKERAY.  391 

lous,  inimitable,  as  that  portrait  is,  will  neutralize  all  her 
cleverness  in  attempting  to  awaken  so  warm  an  interest 
as  Rose  May  lie,  Nancy,  or  Esther  Summerson.  Facts  of 
perfect  notoriety  bear  out  this  view.  Thackeray  owes  his 
popularity  in  great  measure  to  reviewers.  The  men  who 
were  not  in  the  way  of  experiencing  emotion  recognized 
his  power.  The  clever  young  fellows  of  a  satirical  cast, 
laboring  under  the  misfortune,  painfully  conscious  to  them- 
selves, of  being  before  their  age,  were  all  on  his  side. 
Currer  Bell,  with  woman's  vehemence  and  woman's  cordi- 
ality, made  up  her  mind  that  he  was  a  great  teacher,  come 
with  some  profound  and  important  message  for  his  genera- 
tion ;  and,  having  made  up  her  mind,  she  emphatically 
announced  it.  Of  truth,  whether  intellectual  or  ethical,  the 
works  of  Thackeray  contain,  demonstrably  and  indubitably, 
but  a  superficial  film.  But  the  voice  of  Currer  Bell  was 
heard,  and  the  trumpetings  of  reviewers,  the  applause  of 
knowing  young  men,  and  other  causes,  gradually  brought 
him  into  notice.  Thackeray  became  the  fashion.  Dickens 
owed  as  little  of  his  popularity  to  reviewers  as  the  Great 
Unknown  or  the  Oxford  Graduate.  It  must  not  be,  from 
this,  inferred  that  Mr.  Dickens  is  to  be  set  before  Mr. 
Thackeray.  The  reverse  might,  indeed,  be  argued,  although 
we  do  not  intend  to  argue  either.  Mr.  Thackeray  suc- 
ceeded, without  any  aid,  in  obtaining  an  audience,  select 
it  is  true,  but  so  cultivated  and  influential,  that,  somewhat 
as  in  the  case  of  Wordsworth,  the  nation  at  large  was 
forced  to  acknowledge  him.  Those  who  could  find  satis- 
faction in  the  uncompromising  recital  of  nature's  facts 
thronged  around  him. 

If  it  were  asked  what  one  aspect  of  life  Mr.  Thackeray 
has  distinctively  exhibited,  the  answer  could  be  given  in 
one  word,  —  the  trivial  aspect.     The  characters  he  draws 


392  THE   MODERN   NOVEL. 

are  neither  the  best  of  men  nor  the  worst.  But  the  atmos- 
phere of  triviality  which  envelopes  them  all  was  never 
before  so  plainly  perceivable.  He  paints  the  world  as  a 
great  Vanity  Fair,  and  none  has  done  that  so  well. 

The  realism  of  Thackeray  can  hardly  fail  to  have  a  good 
effect  in  fictitious  literature.  It  represents  the  extreme 
point  of  reaction  against  the  false  idealism  of  the  Minerva 
Press.  It  is  a  pre-Raphaelite  school  of  novel  writing.  And 
as  pre-Raphaelitism  is  not  to  be  valued  in  itself,  so  much  as 
in  being  the  passage  to  a  new  and  nobler  ideal,  the  stern 
realism  of  Thackeray  may  lead  the  way  to  something  better 
than  itself. 

We  found  that  the  novel  occupies  a  distinct  and  legiti- 
mate place  among  the  forms  of  human  exertion,  and  we 
cannot  but  deem  it  a  crude  and  shallow  error  to  pronounce 
upon  it  a  sentence  of  indiscriminating  condemnation.  The 
man  who  looks  resolutely  for  truth,  and  bids  away  from 
him  any  feeble  desire  to  be  merely  amused,  may  derive 
important  information  as  to  his  time,  and  valuable  knowl- 
edge of  human  nature,  by  a  heedful  and  limited  study  of 
modern  novels.  But,  on  the  whole,  our  decision  would  be 
that  the  more  limited  this  study  is  the  better.  Converse 
with  rugged  fact,  whether  of  history  or  science,  is  what, 
beyond  question,  most  effectually  braces  and  nourishes  the 
mind.  If  the  tendency  of  the  time  were  to  strike  its  roots 
into  the  rock,  and  not  to  seek  the  soft  sunshine  above,  one 
might  freely  advise  indulgence  in  light  reading.  But 
since  the  tendency  on  this  side  is  by  no  means  likely  to 
run  to  excess,  and  since  the  studious  facilitation  of  mental 
exercise,  and  the  habitual  use  of  intellectual  stimulants,  are 
exceedingly  apt  to  enervate  and  destroy  the  mind,  our 
final  counsel  is  to  lay,  as  much  as  may  be,  the  novel  on 
the  shelf. 


VIII. 

ELLIS,  ACTON,  AND  CURRER  BELL. 

Even  while  the  heart  of  the  British  nation  is  filled  to 
overflowing  by  one  great  anguish  and  one  great  hope,  we 
cannot  doubt  that  a  thrill  of  real  sorrow  will  pass  to  e very- 
corner  of  the  land  with  the  tidings  that  Mrs.  Nicholls, 
formerly  Charlotte  Bronte,  and  known  to  all  the  world  as 
Currer  Bell,  is  no  more.  But  a  few  months  ago,  we  heard 
of  her  marriage.  It  became  known,  with  a  smile  of  happy 
surprise,  that  the  merciless  derider  of  weak  and  insipid 
suitors  had  found  a  lord  and  master,  that  the  hand  which 
drew  the  three  worshipful  ecclesiastics,  Malone,  Donne,  and 
Sweeting,  had  been  locked  at  the  altar  in  that  of  a  curate. 
And  already  the  smile  fades  away  in  the  sound  of  her 
funeral  knell,  leaving  us  to  reflect,  that  all  of  fruit  and 
flower  which  time  might  have  matured  in  the  garden  of 
her  genius  has  been  nipped  by  the  frost  of  death.  There 
is  something  which  strikes  us  as  peculiarly  touching  in  the 
death  of  Currer  Bell.  She  seemed  so  full  of  animation,  of 
vigor ;  life  danced  like  wine  in  her  veins :  all  she  said  was 
so  fresh  and  stirring ;  the  child-look,  taking  this  for  a  grand 
world,  worth  living  in,  no  place  for  whining,  was  still  on 
her  face.  The  brave  little  woman !  —  in  whose  works  you 
could  not  point  to  a  slovenly  line,  to  an  obscure  or  tarrying 
idea.     One  thought  of  her  as  combining  the  iron  will  of 


394  CURRER    BELL. 

her  little  Jane,  with  the  peerless  nature  of  her  Shirley,  the 
beautiful  pantheress,  the  forest-born.  She  could  have  stood 
out  under  the  lightning,  to  trace,  with  firm  pencil,  its  zig- 
zags of  crackling  fire.  And  now  she  too  is  but  a  few 
handfuls  of  white  dust !  Her  step  will  never  more  be  upon 
the  loved  wolds  of  Yorkshire  and  the  broad  moors  which 
she  made  classic  by  her  genius. 

"  Her  part  in  all  the  pomp  that  fills 

The  circuit  of  the  summer  hills 

Is  that  her  grave  is  green." 

It  is  a  trite,  yet  ever  a  suggestive  remark,  that  the  variety 
of  nature  is  infinite.  You  have  been  watching  the  sun, 
when,  as  if  in  love's  changefulness,  he  smiled  from  behind 
April  clouds  on  the  awakening  earth.  Those  evanescent 
lights  on  lawn  and  lea,  those  bright  gleams  on  the  distant 
river,  that  fantastic  sport  of  the  sunlight,  kindling  its  broad 
and  silvery  illumination,  burst  after  burst,  amid  the  moun- 
tain mist,  will  never  be  seen  again.  Every  effect  of  nature 
is  solitary.  Each  star  has  its  own  twinkle,  every  lily  of  the 
field  its  peculiar  and  unshared  beauty.  The  Hand  whose 
touch  is  perfection  repeats  not  its  strokes.  But,  without 
inquiring  what  specifically  is  that  mystic  thing  called  genius, 
it  is  universally  conceded,  that  it  is  of  its  essential  nature 
to  be,  in  a  peculiar  sense,  unexampled  and  alone.  Whether 
it  be  a  positive  addition  to  the  ordinary  complement  of 
human  faculty,  or  whether  it  be  some  new  and  cunning 
harmony,  some  delicate  balancing,  some  exquisite  sharpen- 
ing, of  the  ordinary  mental  powers,  it  is  at  least  agreed 
that,  from  the  eye  in  which  men  discern  genius,  there  falls 
over  the  world  a  light  whose  very  novelty  urges  to  the 
term.  It  has  been  said  by  Coleridge,  that  the  effect  of 
genius  on  its  possessor  is  to  perpetuate,  in  mature  age,  the 


CURRER    BELL.  395 

wakeful  curiosity,  the  fresh  enjoyment,  the  loving  surprise, 
with  which  healthful  childhood  gazes  on  the  new  wTorld ;  to 
enable  a  man  to  see,  in  the  clear,  strong  light  of  intellectual 
noontide,  the  same  fairness  and  freshness  over  the  earth  as 
when  it  lay  under  the  dewy  dawn.  Be  this  as  it  may,  the 
fact  is  beyond  question,  that  there  is  a  difference  between 
the  perceptions  of  such  an  one  and  those  of  the  throng. 
Into  recesses  of  the  human  heart,  whither,  erewhile,  we 
could  not  penetrate,  this  new  light  guides  our  steps.  Secret 
and  ravishing  glimpses  of  beauty,  to  which  we  never  before 
thrilled,  are  now  revealed  to  us.  Passions  which  lay  dormant 
in  our  breasts  have  been  awakened  ere  we  were  aware,  to 
overflow  in  tears  or  flash  in  fire.  Truths  which  were  alto- 
gether unknown,  or,  through  custom,  faded  and  powerless, 
have  beamed  forth  with  startling  or  alluring  clearness. 
And  when  here,  too,  death  asserts  his  iron  rule,  it  is  no 
figure  of  speech,  but  a  simple  statement  of  fact,  that  tones 
have  died  away  which  we  can  never  hear  again  from  the 
universal  harp  of  nature,  that  "  a  light  has  passed  from  the 
revolving  year,"  and  that  Providence  has  again  worked 
out,  in  all  it  involves  of  responsibility  and  monition,  those 
high  intents  for  which  there  was  sent  among  us  an  original 
mind.  The  mind  of  Currer  Bell  was  assuredly  original; 
and  when  we  add,  that  the  genius  by  which  it  was  charac- 
terized was  accompanied  by  an  earnestness  which  might  be 
called  religious,  and  turned,  by  a  strong  human  sympathy, 
upon  the  general  aspects  and  salient  points  of  the  age,  it 
becomes  a  matter  of  serious  moment  to  sum  up  the  work 
she  has  done,  and  estimate  the  lesson  she  has  taught  us. 
The  office  of  criticism  is  twofold ;  it  has  one  duty  to  perform 
for  behoof  of  the  author  and  another  to  the  reader.  From 
that  point  of  view  which  every  honest  and  individual, 
though  nowise  remarkably  powerful,  mind  occupies,  lights 


396  CURRER    BELL, 

of  guidance  or  suggestion  may  be  discerned,  of  value  to 
the  highest ;  honest  criticism  of  living  authors  is  therefore 
beyond  question  to  be  approved.  But  this  task,  and  what- 
ever of  even  apparent  acerbity  it  may  entail,  ceases  with 
the  life  of  the  author.  As  we  received  from  the  dying 
hand  the  gift  to  which  there  will  be  no  addition,  however 
it  may  be  required  of  us  to  define  its  value,  we  may  at 
least  permit  to  criticism  the  tone  of  affection  and  respect. 
It  is  singularly  so  in  the  case  of  Currer  Bell.  Whatever 
estimate  we  may  form  of  the  net  result  of  positive  instruc- 
tion—  the  actual  amount  of  such  sound  available  thought 
as  will  pave  the  highways  of  the  world  —  to  be  found  in 
her  works,  we  cannot  but  think  with  tender  emotion  on 
the  darkness  which  has  so  soon  swallowed  the  brief  and 
meteoric  splendor  of  her  career;  while  we  should  deem 
that  reader  of  perceptions  strangely  blunted,  who  has  never 
discerned  that,  with  all  her  vigor  and  sternness,  it  was 
deep  and  womanly  love  which  filled  the  inmost  fountains 
of  her  heart.  It  is  well,  too,  to  remember,  that  it  were  an 
important  mistake  to  test  the  value  of  any  work,  or  series 
of  works,  by  the  mere  logical  truth  they  contain.  The 
true,  the  beautiful,  and  the  good,  are  inalienably  allied.  In 
the  immeasurable  system  of  education  which  nature  has 
constructed  around  us  in  this  world,  their  conscious  or 
unconscious  influences  are  perpetually  blended.  He  who 
came  to  unfold  celestial  and  unattainable  truth,  deemed 
not  His  teaching  complete,  until  He  turned  the  eyes  of  His 
disciples  on  the  loveliness  of  the  lily  and  the  gay  careless- 
ness of  the  birds.  Every  tone  of  true  pathos,  every  reveal- 
ing glance  by  which  a  new  aspect  of  nature's  loveliness 
opens  on  our  eyes  —  all  that  tends,  in  what  way  soever,  to 
make  us  nobler,  gentler,  better  —  must  be  reckoned  in  the 
account  of  what  an  author  has  conferred  upon  us. 


CURRER    BELL.  397 

The  name  of  Currer  Bell  has  constantly  been  associated 
with  those  of  her  two  sisters,  Emily  and  Anne,  known  in 
the  literary  world  as  Ellis  and  Acton  Bell.  The  three 
were  the  daughters  of  a  clergyman  of  the  Church  of 
England,  who,  as  we  learn  from  the  newspapers,  still  "  at 
Haworth,  near  Keighley,  in  Yorkshire,"  survives  his  wife 
and  all  his  children.  Genius,  as  has  not  unfrequently  hap- 
pened, was,  in  the  case  of  the  three  sisters,  associated 
with  the  seeds  of  fatal  disease.  Perhaps  our  whole  literary 
annals  will  show  no  more  touching  episode  than  that  on 
which  the  leaf  has  just  been  turned  by  the  death  of  Currer 
Bell.  It  is  our  present  purpose  to  treat  chiefly  of  the 
works  of  this  last,  but  we  shall  be  pardoned  for  making 
allusion  to  her  sisters. 

Emily  Bronte,  author  of  Wuthering  Heights,  was,  we 
have  no  hesitation  in  saying,  one  of  the  most  extraordinary 
women  that  ever  lived.  We  have  felt  strongly  impelled  to 
pronounce  her  genius  more  powerful,  her  promise  more 
rich,  than  those  of  her  gifted  sister,  Charlotte.  For  ac- 
cepting this  avowal,  the  reader  will  be  somewhat  prepared, 
by  perusing  the  following  sentences,  from  the  biographic 
notice,  brief,  but  of  thrilling  interest,  of  her  two  sisters, 
given  to  the  world  by  Currer  Bell :  — "  My  sister  Emily 
first  declined.  The  details  of  her  illness  are  deep-branded 
in  my  memory ;  but  to  dwell  on  them,  either  in  thought  or 
narrative,  is  not  in  my  power.  Never  in  all  her  life  had 
she  lingered  over  any  task  that  lay  before  her,  and  she 
did  not  linger  now.  She  sank  rapidly.  She  made  haste 
to  leave  us.  Yet,  while  physically  she  perished,  mentally 
she  grew  stronger  than  we  had  yet  known  her.  Day  by 
day,  when  I  saw  with  what  a  front  she  met  suffering,  I 
looked  on  her  with  an  anguish  of  wonder  and  love.  I 
have  seen  nothing  like  it ;  but,  indeed,  I  have  never  seen 

FIRST   SERIES.  34 


398  CURRER    BELL. 

her  parallel  in  anything.  Stronger  than  a  man,  simpler 
than  a  child,  her  nature  stood  alone.  The  awful  point 
was,  that,  while  full  of  ruth  for  others,  on  herself  she  had 
no  pity;  the  spirit  was  inexorable  to  the  flesh;  from  the 
trembling  hand,  the  unnerved  limbs,  the  faded  eyes,  the 
same  service  was  exacted  as  they  had  rendered  in  health." 
The  picture  thus  vividly  drawn  of  a  frail  form  stand- 
ing up  undaunted  in  the  scowl  of  death,  should  be 
kept  before  us  as  we  turn  to  the  work  left  us  by  Ellis 
Bell.  It  were  a  strange  and  surely  a  distempered  criti- 
cism which  hesitated  to  pass  sentence  of  condemnation  on 
Wuthering  Heights.  We  have  no  such  hesitation.  Can- 
ons of  art  sound  and  imperative,  true  tastes  and  natural 
instincts,  of  which  these  canons  are  the  expression,  unite 
in  pronouncing  it  unquestionably  and  irremediably  mon, 
strous.  If  there  is  any  truth  or  indication  of  truth  in  all 
that  the  most  artistic  of  nations  alleged  concerning  the  line 
of  beauty,  if  it  is  true  that  in  every  w7ork  of  art,  however 
displayed,  we  must  meet  the  proofs  of  moderation,  of  calm- 
ness, of  tempered  and  mastered  power;  if  it  is  a  reasonable 
demand  that  the  instances  of  nature's  abortion,  from  which 
we  would  turn  away  in  the  street,  objects  and  incidents 
which  awake  no  higher  emotion  than  abhorrent  disgust, 
be  honored  with  no  embalming  rites,  but  left  to  be  taken 
out  of  our  sight,  like  dead  dogs  and  carrion,  by  that  nature 
which  never  perpetuates  what  is  gross  or  noisome;  this 
work  must  be  condemned.  On  the  dark  brow  and  iron 
cheek  of  HeathclifF,  there  are  touches  of  the  Miltonic 
fiend;  but  we  shrink  in  mere  loathing,  in  "unequivocal 
contempt,"  from  the  base  wretch  who  can  use  his  cruelty 
as  the  tool  of  his  greed,  and  whose  cruelty  itself  is  so  un- 
redeemed by  any  resistance  or  stimulant,  as  to  expend 
itself  on  a  dying  son  or  a  girl's  poodle.     There  are  things 


CUBRER    BELL.  a99 

which  the  pen  of  history  cannot  be  required  to  do  more 
than  touch  on  and  pass  by.  "We  desire  not  admittance  into 
the  recesses  of  the  palace  of  Sujah  Dowlah,  we  will  not 
penetrate  the  privacy  of  the  Caesars.  If  the  historic  artist 
must  at  times  show  us  the  darkest  evil,  that  we  may  avoid 
it,  or  sweep  it  from  the  earth,  neither  his  nor  any  other 
art  can  altogether  forego  the  glorious  privilege  of  washing 
its  creations  in  pure  water,  and  shunning,  at  least,  the  foul 
and  offensive.  The  whole  atmosphere,  too,  of  this  fiction 
is  distempered,  disturbed,  and  unnatural.  Fever  and  mal- 
aria are  in  the  air.  The  emotions  and  the  crimes  are  on  the 
scale  of  madness ;  and,  as  if  earthly  beings,  and  feelings 
called  terrestrial,  were  not  of  potency  sufficient  to  carry  on 
the  exciting  drama,  there  are  dangerous,  very  ghostly  per- 
sonages, of  the  spectral  order,  introduced,  and  communings 
held  with  the  spirit  world  which  would  go  far  to  prove 
Yorkshire  the  original  locality  of  spirit-rapping.  All  this 
is  true,  and  no  reader  of  the  book  will  deem  our  mode  of 
expressing  it  severe.  Yet  we  have  perfect  confidence  in 
pointing  to  Wuthering  Heights,  as  a  work  containing  evi- 
dence of  powers  it  were  perhaps  impossible  to  estimate, 
and  mental  wealth  which  we  might  vainly  attempt  to  com- 
pute. A  host  of  Titans  would  make  wild  work,  if  directed 
by  a  child  to  overturn  the  mountains;  a  host  of  dwarfs 
would  do  little  good  or  harm  in  any  case ;  but  bring  your 
Titans  under  due  command,  set  over  them  a  judgment  that 
can  discern  and  command,  and  hill  will  rise  swiftly  over 
hill,  till  the  pyramid  is  scaling  the  sky.  The  powers  mani- 
fested in  this  strange  book  seem  to  us  comparable  to  a 
Titan  host ;  and  we  know  no  task  beyond  their  might,  had 
they  been  ruled  by  a  severe  taste  and  discriminating  judg- 
ment. The  mere  ability  to  conceive  and  depict,  with 
strength  so  unwavering  and  clearness  so  vivid,  that  wild 


400  CURRER    BELL. 

group  of  characters,  the  unmeasured  distance  into  which 
recedes  all  that  is  conventional,  customary,  or  sentimental, 
the  tremendous  strength  and  maturity  of  the  style,  would 
be  enough  to  justify  our  words.  The  very  absurdities  and 
exaggerations  of  the  construction  lend  their  testimony  here. 
Not  for  a  moment,  with  such  materials,  could  the  aim  of  art 
have  been  attained,  could  belief,  in  some  sense  and  for  some 
space,  have  been  produced,  save  by  commanding  powers. 
It  may  be  the  wild  and  haggard  pageantry  of  a  dream  at 
which  we  gaze,  but  it  is  a  dream  we  can  never  forget. 
Though  the  dissent  and  denial  of  our  reason  are,  when  we 
pause,  explicit,  we  no  sooner  resign  ourselves  to  the  spell 
of  the  magician,  than  we  feel  powerless  to  disbelieve.  In 
the  strength  of  the  assertion,  we  overlook  its  absurdity. 
Touching  the  character  of  Heathcliff,  moreover,  and,  with 
less  expressness,  of  that  of  Cathy  Earnshaw,  we  have  a 
remark  to  make,  which  will  extend  to  certain  of  the  char- 
acters of  Currer  Bell,  and  which  might,  we  think,  go  far  to 
point  out  a  psychological  defence,  to  be  urged  with  some 
plausibility,  of  much  that  is  extravagant  and  revolting  in 
either  case.  The  power  over  the  mind  of  what  Mr.  Car- 
lyle  calls  "  fixed  idea,"  is  well  known ;  the  possession  of 
the  whole  soul  by  one  belief  or  aim  produces  strange  and 
unaccountable  effects,  commingling  strength  and  weakness, 
kindness  and  cruelty,  and  seeming,  at  first  sight,  to  com- 
promise the  very  unity  of  nature.  Ellis  Bell,  in  Wither- 
ing Heights,  deals  with  a  kindred,  though  somewhat  differ- 
ent phenomenon.  She  has  not  to  do  with  intellect,  but 
emotion.  She  paints  the  effects  of  one  overmastering  feel- 
ing, the  maniac  actings  of  him  who  has  quaffed  one  draught 
of  maddening  passion.  The  passion  she  has  chosen  is  love. 
There  is  still  a  gleam  of  nobleness,  of  natural  human  affec- 
tion, in  the  heart  of  Heathcliff  in  the  days  of  his  early  love 


CURRER  BELL.  401 

for  Cathy,  when  he  rushes  manfully  at  the  bull-dog  which 
has  seized  her,  and  sets  himself,  after  she  is  safe  in  Thrush- 
cross  Grange,  on  the  window  ledge,  to  watch  how  matters 
go  on,  u  because,"  says  he,  "  if  Catherine  had  wished  to 
return,  I  intended  shattering  their  great  glass  panes  to  a 
million  fragments,  unless  they  let  her  out."  But  we  watch 
that  boyish  heart,  until,  in  the  furnace  of  hopeless  and 
agonizing  passion,  it  becomes  as  insensible  to  any  tender 
emotion,  to  any  emotion  save  one,  as  a  mass  of  glowing 
iron  to  trickling  dew.  Heathcliff's  original  nature  is  seen 
only  in  the  outgoing  of  his  love  towards  Cathy ;  there  he 
is  human,  if  he  is  frenzied ;  in  all  other  cases,  he  is  a  devil. 
As  his  nature  was  never  good,  as  there  were  always  in  it 
the  hidden  elements  of  the  sneak  and  the  butcher,  the 
whole  of  that  semi-vital  life  which  he  retains  towards  the 
rest  of  the  world  is  ignoble  and  revolting.  His  sorrow 
has  been  to  him  moral  death.  With  truly  diabolic  uni- 
formity, every  exercise  of  power  possible  to  him  upon  any 
creature,  rational  or  irrational,  Cathy,  of  course,  excepted, 
is  made  for  its  torment.  He  seems  in  one  half  of  his  nature 
to  have  lost  all  sensibility,  to  be  unconscious  that  human 
beings  suffer  pain.  The  great  agony  of  passion  has  burned 
out  of  his  bosom  the  chords  of  sympathy  which  linked  him 
to  his  kind,  and  left  him  in  that  ghastly  and  fiendish  soli- 
tude, which  it  is  awful  to  dream  of  as  a  possible  element  in 
the  punishment  of  hell.  However-frightful  the  love-scenes 
in  the  death  chamber  of  Cathy  —  and  we  suppose  there  is 
nothing  at  all  similar  to  these  in  the  range  of  literature  — 
we  feel  that  we  are  in  the  presence  of  a  man.  When  we 
think  on  his  early  roamings  with  his  lost  and  dying  love 
on  the  wild  moors,  we  can  even  perceive,  stealing  over  the 
heart,  a  faint  breath  of  sympathy.  But  when  he  leaves 
the  world  of  his  real  existence  —  the  world  of  his  love  for 
34* 


402  CURRER  BELL. 

Cathy,  whether  as  a  breathing  woman,  or  as  the  wraith 
which  he  still  loves  on  —  we  shrink  from  him  as  from  a 
corpse,  made  more  ghastly  by  the  hideous  movements  of 
galvanism.  Somewhat  different  is  the  effect  of  the  same 
passion  upon  Cathy.  Hers  was  originally  a  brave,  beauti- 
ful, essentially  noble  nature  ;  through  all  her  waywardness, 
we  love  her  still ;  and  though  her  passion  for  Heathcliff 
costs  her  her  life,  it  never  scathes  and  sears  her  soul  into 
a  calcined  crag  like  his.  To  the  last,  her  heart  and  imag- 
ination can  bear  her  to  the  wild  flowers  she  used  to  gather 
amid  the  heath ;  strange  and  wraith-like  as  she  grows  in  the 
storm  of  that  resistless  passion,  we  know  full  well  that  no 
mean,  or  cruel,  or  unwomanly  thought  could  enter  her 
breast.  Viewed  as  a  psychological  study  of  this  sort,  a 
defence  might,  we  say,  be  set  up  for  the  choice  of  these 
two  characters;  and  when  thus  confessedly  morbid,  their 
handling  will  be  allowed  to  be  masterly.  Nor  can  it  be 
alleged  that  instances  of  similar  passion,  attended  by  like 
results,  are  not  to  be  met  with  in  real  life.  Madness, 
idiocy,  and  death,  are  acknowledged  to  follow  misguided 
or  hopeless  affection.  In  the  case  both  of  Cathy  and 
Heathcliff,  there  was  unquestionably  a  degree  of  the  first. 
But  the  defence  can  at  best  be  partial,  for,  we  submit, 
bedlam  is  no  legitimate  sphere  of  art.  Of  one  thing,  how- 
ever, there  can  be  no  doubt.  The  girl's  hand  which  drew 
Heathcliff  and  Cathy,  which  never  shook  as  it  brought  out 
those  lines  of  agony  on  cheek  and  brow,  which  never  for  a 
moment  lost  its  strength  and  sweep  in  flourish  or  bravura, 
was  such  as  has  seldom  wielded  either  pen  or  pencil. 

"We  might  descant  at  great  length  on  the  variety  of 
power  displayed  in  this  extraordinary  book  ;  but  we  should 
leave  it  without  conveying  an  idea,  even  partially  correct, 
of  its  general  character,  if  we  omitted  to  notice  those 


CURRER    BELL.  403 

touches  of  nature's  softest  beauty,  those  tones  of  nature's 
softest  melody,  which  are  blended,  so  cunningly  as  to  excite 
no  sense  of  discord,  with  its  general  excitement  and  gloom. 
We  cannot  forbear  quoting  here  a  passage  which  seems  to 
us  deeply  suggestive ;  the  speaker  is  a  young  girl,  and  he 
of  whom  she  speaks  a  boy  about  her  own  age :  — 

"  One  time,  however,  we  were  near  quarrelling.  He  said 
the  pleasantest  manner  of  spending,  a  hot  July  day  was 
lying  from  morning  till  evening  on  a  bank  of  heath  in  the 
middle  of  the  moors,  with  the  bees  humming  dreamily 
about  among  the  bloom,  and  the  larks  singing  high  up 
overhead,  and  the  blue  sky  and  bright  sun  shining  steadily 
and  cloudlessly.  That  was  his  perfect  idea  of  heaven's 
happiness.  Mine  was,  rocking  in  a  rustling  green  tree,  with 
a  west  wind  blowing,  and  bright,  white  clouds  flitting 
rapidly  above ;  and  not  only  larks,  but  throstles,  and  black- 
birds, and  linnets,  and  cuckoos,  pouring  out  music  on  every 
side,  and  the  moors  seen  at  a  distance,  broken  into  cool, 
dusky  dells  ;  but  close  by  great  swells  of  long  grass  undu- 
lating in  waves  to  the  breeze ;  and  woods,  and  sounding 
water,  and  the  whole  world  awake  and  wild  with  joy.  He 
wanted  all  to  lie  in  an  ecstacy  of  peace ;  I  wanted  all  to 
sparkle  and  dance  in  a  glorious  jubilee." 

Does  this  not  bear  witness  to  much  ?  No  sympathy  but 
that  of  a  green  heart  could  have  won  access  to  that  child's 
heaven.  None  but  a  free,  and  elastic,  and  loving  nature 
could  thus,  with  the  inimitable  touch  of  truth  and  reality* 
have  heard,  through  the  ear  of  that  glad  girl,  in  the  joy- 
toned  anthem  of  bird,  and  water,  and  rustling  branch,  the 
very  music  of  heaven.  The  faithfulness  of  the  picture,  the 
perfect  and  effortless  realization  of  the  whole  summer  scene, 
so  that  we  hear  that  west  wind,  and  see  those  bright  white 
clouds  —  the  cumulous  clouds  which  the  summer  long,  are 


404  CURRER    BELL. 

the  flocks  of  the  west  wind  —  and  scent  that  bloom  of  the 
warm,  waving  heather,  is  demonstration  absolutely  sufficient 
of  that  inborn  love  of  nature's  joy  and  beauty  which  never 
yet  dwelt  in  a  narrow  or  unworthy  breast.  This  short 
extract,  too,  is  sufficient  to  prove  maturity  and  excellence 
of  style.  There  is  a  free,  strong,  graceful  force  in  every 
line  ;  there  is  no  dallying,  no  second  touch  ;  the  little  scene 
groups  itself  gracefully  together  as  if  to  that  summer  music. 

We  make  no  more  than  an  allusion  to  Ellis  Bell's  poetry. 
It  is  characterized  by  strength  and  freshness,  and  by  that 
original  cadence,  that  power  of  melody,  which,  be  it  wild, 
or  tender,  or  even  harsh,  was  never  heard  before,  and  comes 
at  first  hand  from  nature,  as  her  sign  of  the  born  poet. 
We  have  compared  the  poetry  of  the  three  sisters ;  and  in 
spite  of  a  prevailing  opinion  to  the  contrary,  we  scruple 
not  to  declare,  that  the  clear  result  of  our  examination  is 
the  conclusion  that  Ellis  Bell's  is  beyond  measure  the  best. 

But,  after  all,  we  must  pronounce  what  has  been  left  us 
by  this  wonderful  woman,  unhealthy,  immature,  and  worthy 
of  being  avoided.  WutJiering  Heights,  we  repeat,  belongs 
to  the  horror  school  of  fiction,  and  is  involved  in  its  unequiv- 
ocal and  unexcepting  condemnation.  We  say  not  that  a 
mind,  inured  to  the  task,  cannot,  by  careful  scrutiny  and 
severe  discrimination,  derive  valuable  hints  and  important 
exercise  from  such  works.  You  may  trace  and  emulate 
strength  of  touch  and  richness  of  color,  while  you  detest  the 
subject.  You  may  listen  to  snatches  of  woodland  music,  and 
thrill  to  tints  of  woodland  beauty,  in  the  neighborhood  of 
the  hyena's  den.  But  we  do  not  for  this  recall  our  condem- 
nation. At  the  foot  of  the  gallows,  touches  of  nature's 
tenderness  may  be  marked:  in  the  pallid  face  of  the  crim- 
inal you  may  note  workings  of  emotion  not  to  be  seen 
elsewhere.     Anatomy  might  be  studied,  with  both  novelty 


CURRER    BELL.  405 

and  force  of  instruction,  in  the  quivering  of  the  muscles  and 
wrenching  of  the  forehead  of  one  who  lay  on  the  wheel. 
But  it  admits  not  of  question,  that  the  general  effect  of  such 
spectacles  is  brutalizing,  and  we  would  therefore  without 
hesitation  terminate  their  publicity.  On  exactly  the  same 
grounds,  would  we  bid  our  readers  avoid  works  of  distem- 
pered excitement.  Even  when  such  are  of  the  highest 
excellence  in  their  class,  as  those  of  Ellis  Bell  and  Edgar 
Poe,  we  would  deliberately  sentence  them  to  oblivion. 
Their  general  effect  is  to  produce  a  mental  state  alien  to  the 
calm  energy  and  quiet  homely  feelings  of  real  life  ;  to  make 
the  soul  the  slave  of  stimulants,  and  those  of  the  fiercest 
kind ;  and,  whatever  morbid  irritability  may  for  the  time 
be  fostered,  to  shrivel  and  dry  up  those  sympathies  which 
are  the  most  tender,  delicate,  and  precious.  Works  like 
those  of  Edgar  Poe  and  this  Wuthering  Heights  must  be 
plainly  declared  to  blunt,  to  brutalize,  and  to  enervate  the 
mind.  Of  the  poetry,  also,  of  Ellis  Bell,  it  must  be  said 
that  it  is  not  healthful.  Its  beauty  is  allied  to  that  wild 
loveliness  which  may  gleam  on  the  hectic  cheek,  or  move 
while  it  startles,  as  we  listen  to  maniac  ravings.  And 
wherefore  this  unchanging  wail,  whence  this  perpetual  and 
inexpressible  melancholy,  in  the  poems  of  one  so  young  ? 
What  destiny  is  it  with  which  this  young  heart  so  vainly 
struggles,  and  by  which  it  is  overcome  ?  Is  it  possible  that, 
under  the  sunny  azure  of  an  English  sky,  and  while  the  foot 
is  on  English  moors,  so  utter  a  sadness  may  descend  on  a 
girl,  whom  we  expect  to  find  "  a  metaphor  of  spring,  and 
mirth,  and  gladness,"  the  sister  of  the  fawn  and  the  linnet  ? 
The  spectacle  is  deeply  touching,  and,  alas  !  the  explanation 
is  at  hand  ;  an  explanation  which,  while  it  leaves  untouched 
the  assertion  that  the  beauty  of  these  poems  is  that  of  the 
blighted  flower,  changes  every  feeling  with  which  we  might 


406  CURBER    BELL. 

momentarily  regard  their  author  into  pitying  sorrow.  Her 
genius  was  yoked  with  death.  It  never  freed  itself  from 
the  dire  companionship,  never  rose  into  freedom  and  clear- 
ness. As  in  the  old  Platonic  chariot,  her  soul,  borne  by 
her  winged  genius,  rose  strong  and  daring  towards  the 
empyrean  ;  but  ere  it  breathed  the  pure  serene,  that  black 
steed,  which  was  also  yoked  indissolubly  to  the  car,  dragged 
her  downwards  even  to  the  grave.  Her  poetry,  whatever 
tones  of  true  and  joyful  lyric  music  it  may  at  intervals 
afford,  is,  as  a  whole,  but  the  wild  wailing  melody  to  which 
was  fought  the  battle  between  genius  and  death. 

Of  Anne  Bronte,  known  as  Acton  Bell,  we  have  scarce  a 
remark  to  make.  In  her  life,  too,  sadness  was  the  reigning 
element,  but  she  possessed  no  such  strong  genius  as  her 
sister.  "  Anne's  character,"  says  Currer  Bell,  "  was  more 
subdued  ;  she  wanted  the  power,  the  fire,  the  originality  of 
her  sister,  but  was  well  endowed  with  quiet  virtues  of  her 
own.  Long-suffering,  self-denying,  reflective,  and  intelli- 
gent, a  constitutional  reserve  and  taciturnity  placed  and 
kept  her  in  the  shade,  and  covered  her  mind,  and  especially 
her  feelings,  with  a  sort  of  nun-like  veil,  which  was  rarely 
lifted."  Her  death  is  thus  recorded  by  the  same  authority : 
—  "  She  (Ellis)  was  not  buried  ere  Anne  fell  ill.  She  had 
not  been  committed  to  the  grave  a  fortnight,  before  we 
received  distinct  intimation  that  it  was  necessary  to  prepare 
our  minds  to  see  the  younger  sister  go  after  the  elder. 
Accordingly,  she  followed  in  the  same  path,  with  slower 
step,  and  with  a  patience  that  equalled  the  other's  fortitude. 
I  have  said  that  she  was  religious,  and  it  was  by  leaning  on 
those  Christian  doctrines  in  which  she  firmly  believed,  that 
she  found  support  through  her  most  painful  journey.  I 
witnessed  their  efficacy  in  her  latest  hour  and  greatest  trial, 
and  must  bear  testimony  to  the  calm  triumph  with  which 


CURRER    BELL.  407 

they  brought  her  through."  She  died  May  28, 1849.  The 
last  lines  written  by  Acton  Bell  are  so  full  of  pathos, 
awaken  a  sorrow  so  holy  and  ennobling,  and  breathe  a  faith 
so  strong  and  tranquil,  that  we  cannot  pass  them  by :  — 

"  I  hoped,  that  with  the  brave  and  strong, 
My  portion'd  task  might  lie  ; 
To  toil  amid  the  busy  throng, 
With  purpose  pure  and  high. 

But  God  has  fix'd  another  part, 

And  he  has  fix'd  it  well  : 
I  said  so  with  my  bleeding  heart, 

When  first  the  anguish  fell. 

Thou,  God,  hast  taken  our  delight, 

Our  treasured  hope  away : 
Thou  bidd'st  us  now  weep  through  the  night, 

And  sorrow  through  the  day. 

These  weary  hours  will  not  be  lost, 

These  days  of  misery, 
These  nights  of  darkness,  anguish-tost, 

Can  I  but  turn  to  thee : 

With  secret  labor  to  sustain 

In  humble  patience  every  blow ; 
To  gather  fortitude  from  pain, 

And  hope  and  holiness  from  woe. 

Thus  let  me  serve  thee  from  my  heart, 

Whate'er  may  be  my  written  fate ; 
Whether  thus  early  to  depart, 

Or  yet  awhile  to  wait. 

If  thou  should'st  bring  me  back  to  life, 

More  humbled  I  should  be ; 
More  wise  —  more  strengthen'd  for  the  strife, 

More  apt  to  lean  on  thee. 


408  CURRER    BELL. 

Should  death  be  standing  at  the  gate, 

Thus  should  I  keep  my  vow ; 
But,  Lord  !  whatever  be  my  fate, 

Oh,  let  me  serve  thee  now  I" 

"These  lines  written,"  adds  Currer  Bell,  "the  desk  was 
closed,  the  pen  laid  aside,  forever." 

It  may  well  be  doubted  whether  any  more  than  a  faint 
and  mournful  reminiscence  of  Ellis  and  Acton  Bell  will 
survive  the  generation  now  passing  away.  But  the  case  is 
widely  different  with  the  eldest  of  the  sisters.  Currer  Bell 
has  won  for  herself  a  place  in  our  literature  from  which  she 
cannot  be  deposed.  Her  influence  will  long  be  felt,  as  a 
strong  plastic  energy,  in  the  literature  of  Britain  and  the 
world.  The  language  of  England  will  retain  a  trace  of  her 
genius.  We  have  no  intention,  at  present,  to  subject  her 
works  to  a  detailed  criticism ;  we  purpose  merely  to  notice 
a  few  of  her  leading  characteristics,  and,  listening  to  her 
words  as  those  of  one  who  scrupled  not  to  assume  the 
tone  of  a  censor  of  her  age,  and  considered  every  word  she 
penned  matter  of  conscientious  regard,  to  endeavor  to 
define,  briefly  but  articulately,  the  worth  of  her  teaching. 
Currer  Bell  professed  to  be  no  idle  entertainer.  She  did 
not,  indeed,  tag  on  a  moral  to  the  end  of  her  book,  —  else 
it  had  been  little  worth,  —  or  even  blazon  it  on  its  surface. 
But  she  professed  to  write  truly,  to  show  living  men 
and  women,  meeting  the  exigencies,  grappling  with  the 
problems  of  real  life,  to  point  out  how  the  battle  goes  in 
private  circles,  between  pretension  and  reality,  between 
falsehood  and  truth.  If  we  were  content  to  listen  to  her 
as  a  historian,  she  relinquished  with  a  smile  the  laurel  of 
the  romancer.  She  was  the  professed  foe  of  convention- 
ality, and  the  whole  tone  of  her  writings  evinces  her  desire 


CURRER    BELL,  409 

to  fling  off  its  trammels.    To  what  extent  she  succeeded 
we  may  learn  as  we  proceed. 

The  style  of  Currer  Bell  is  one  which  will  reward  study 
for  its  own  sake.  Its  character  is  directness,  clearness, 
force.  We  could  point  to  no  style  which  appears  to  us 
more  genuinely  and  nobly  English.  Prompt  and  business- 
like, perfectly  free  of  obscurity,  refining,  or  involution,  it 
seems  the  native  garment  of  honest  passion  and  clear 
thought,  the  natural  dialect  of  men  that  can  work  and  will. 
It  reminds  one  of  a  good  highway  among  English  hills : 
leading  straight  to  its  destination,  and  turning  aside  for  no 
rare  glimpse  of  landscape,  yet  bordered  by  dewy  fields, 
and  woods,  and  crags,  with  a  mountain  stream  here  rolling 
beneath  it,  and  a  thin  cascade  here  whitening  the  face 
of  the  rock  by  its  side :  utility  embosomed  in  beauty. 
Perhaps  its  tone  is  somewhat  too  uniform,  its  balance  and 
cadence  too  unvaried.  Perhaps,  also,  there  is  too  much  of 
the  abruptness  of  passion.  We  should  certainly  set  it  far 
below  many  styles  in  richness,  delicacy,  calmness,  and 
grace.  But  there  is  no  writer  whose  style  can  be  pro- 
nounced a  universal  model;  and  for  simple  narrative,  for 
the  relation  of  what  one  would  hear  with  all  speed,  yet 
with  a  spice  of  accompanying  pleasure,  this  style  is  a  model 
as  nearly  perfect  as  we  can  conceive.  And  its  beauty  is  so 
genuine  and  honest !  You  are  at  first  at  a  loss  to  account 
for  the  charm  which  breathes  around,  filling  the  air  as  with 
the  fragrance  of  roses  after  showers ;  but  the  secret  cannot 
long  remain  hidden  from  the  poor  critic,  doomed  to  know 
how  he  is  pleased.  It  lies  in  the  perfect  honesty,  combine^ 
with  the  perfect  accuracy,  of  the  sympathy  with  nature's 
beauty  which  dwelt  in  the  breast  of  the  author ;  in  the 
fact  that  she  ever  loved  the  dew-drop,  the  daisy,  the  moun- 
tain bird,  the  vernal  branch.    Uncalled  for  and  to  her 

FIRST   SERIES.  35 


410  CURRER    BELL. 

unconsciously,  at  the  smile  of  sympathy,  the  flowers  and 
the  dew-drops  come  to  soften  and  adorn  her  page. 

Of  Currer  Bell's  love  of  nature  we  wish  we  had  space  to 
speak  at  some  length:  we  can  offer  merely  one  or  two 
remarks.  There  is  nothing  so  commonly  mimicked,  and 
there  are  few  things  so  rarely  displayed,  as  genuine  love 
and  accurate  knowledge  of  nature.  The  truth  is,  nature 
is  somewhat  difficult  to  know:  we  think  not  of  noting 
the  tints  in  a  picture  which  has  hung  in  our  eyes  since 
childhood.  And  whatever  may  be  said  of  universal  beauty, 
we  have  become  perfectly  assured  of  this,  that  he  who  sets 
himself  really  to  watch  nature  will  find  the  beauty  of  her 
general  aspect  merely  the  contrast  by  which  she  illustrates 
her  moods  and  moments  —  the  every  day  dress  by  which 
she  sets  off  her  jewelry:  and  that  few  indications  can 
be  surer  of  a  want  of  delicate  appreciation  of  the  loveli- 
ness of  sky,  and  cloud,  and  mountain,  than  the  common- 
place prating  about  all  being  beautiful  which  we  behold. 
Currer  Bell,  like  her  sister  Ellis,  gives  us  such  pictures  of 
nature,  so  detailed,  so  definite,  so  unmistakable,  so  fresh, 
that  they  rise  before  us  like  a  reminiscence,  or  give  us  an 
assurance  as  of  eyesight.  We  could  quote,  in  illustration 
of  these  remarks,  passage  after  passage  of  perfect  truth,  not 
in  any  measure  the  less  true  that  the  scenes  described  have 
been  seen  by  the  eye  of  an  original  imagination,  or  that  an 
exquisite  fancy  has  at  times  flung  a  pearl-wreath  round  the 
dove's  neck,  where  nature's  touches  of  azure  and  gold  were 
already  gleaming.  Among  the  more  ordinary  but  most 
easily  appreciable  of  such  passages,  is  that  careless  passing 
description  in  the  third  volume  of  Shirley,  of  the  general 
effect  of  an  east  wind  in  a  cloudless  August  sky,  and  the 
sudden  change  to  the  west: — "It  was  the  close  of  August: 
the  weather  was  fine  —  that  is  to  say,  it  was  very  dry  and 


CURRER    BELL.  411 

very  dusty,  for  an  arid  wind  had  been  blowing  from  the 
east  this  month  past:  very  cloudless,  too,  though  a  pale 
haze,  stationary  in  the  atmosphere,  seemed  to  rob  of  all 
depth  of  tone  the  blue  of  heaven,  of  all  freshness  the  ver- 
dure of  earth,  and  of  all  glow  the  light  of  day 

But  there  came  a  day  when  the  wind  ceased  to  sob  at  the 
eastern  gable  of  the  rectory,  and  at  the  oriel  window  of 
the  church.  A  little  cloud  like  a  man's  hand  arose  in  the 
west ;  gusts  from  the  same  quarter  drove  it  on,  and  spread 
it  wide;  wet  and  tempest  prevailed  awhile.  When  that 
was  over,  the  sun  broke  out  genially,  heaven  regained  its 
azure,  and  earth  its  green :  the  livid  cholera-tint  had  van- 
ished from  the  face  of  nature ;  the  hills  rose  clear  round, 
the  horizon,  absolved  from  that  pale  malaria-haze."  Not 
more  true,  but  more  rare,  is  the  following  bit  of  woodland 
painting,  which,  we  humbly  submit,  is  worthy  of  Words- 
worth :  —  "I  know  all  the  pleasantest  spots :  I  know  where 
we  could  get  nuts  in  nutting-time ;  I  know  where  wild 
strawberries  abound ;  I  know  certain  lonely,  quite  untrod- 
den glades,  carpeted  with  strange  mosses,  some  yellow  as 
if  gilded,  some  a  sober  gray,  some  gem-green.  I  know 
groups  of  trees,  that  ravish  the  eye  with  their  perfect,  pic- 
ture-like effects:  rude  oak,  delicate  birch,  glossy  beech, 
clustered  in  contrast ;  and  ash-trees  stately  as  Saul,  stand- 
ing isolated,  and  superannuated  wood-giants  clad  in  bright 
shrouds  of  ivy."  The  reader  of  these  works  will  know  we 
could  quote  similar  sketches  from  every  chapter. 

Allied  with  this  power  of  original  and  loving  observation 
of  nature,  and  here  naturally  claiming  our  attention,  the 
imaginative  faculty  of  Currer  Bell  was  altogether  new  and 
remarkable.  It  would  lead  us  very  far  to  discuss  and  de- 
termine the  relations  and  distinctions  between  the  powers 
of  perception,  of  imagination,  and  of  thought.     We  lean 


412  CUBBEB    BELL. 

to  the  belief,  that  a  definite  line  cannot  be  drawn  between 
them ;  that  it  is  not  possible  in  every  case  to  distinguish 
between  the  piercing  glance  which  perceives,  and  the  imag- 
inative gaze  which  bestows ;  between  the  strong  memory 
Which  retains,  and  the  clear  conception  which  recalls.  We 
doubt  not  that  the  imagination  of  Currer  Bell  was  con- 
cerned in  every  embracing  look  she  cast  over  nature ;  and 
we  should  deem  it  a  vain  assay  to  disentangle  the  complex- 
ity of  faculty  by  which  so  fair  a  variety  of  beauty  was 
lured  to  her  page.  But  there  are  effects  of  imagination 
which  are  unmistakably  its  own,  where  no  scene  or  form 
of  nature  is  recalled,  but  where,  from  her  tints  and  her 
lines,  a  chosen  number  are  selected,  and  the  whole  ar- 
ranged anew  by  a  power  which  we  must  name  creative. 
We  may  falter  in  defining  the  precise  faculty  which  enables 
us  to  paint  perfectly  the  waving  corn  or  the  glowing  gar- 
den. But  we  own  the  magic  of  imagination  at  once,  when, 
in  the  midst  of  her  gardens,  or  surrounded  by  swarthy 
reapers  and  crowned  with  the  yellow  sheaf,  the  Flora  or 
the  Ceres  stands  before  us.  It  is  to  efforts  of  the  imagi- 
native faculty  thus  unmistakable,  that  we  direct  attention 
in  the  case  before  us.  There  are  pieces  of  poetic  creation 
in  the  prose  works  of  Currer  Bell,  distinct,  not  only  from 
the  general  texture  of  her  composition,  but,  so  far  as  we 
know,  from  anything  in  the  English  language.  They  are 
not  of  great  number,  but  so  distinct  are  they  and  striking, 
that  every  one  of  them  could,  after  a  single  perusal  of  her 
works,  be  pointed  out.  The  three  pictures  selected  by 
Rochester  from  Jane's  portfolio,  the  Mermaid  and  Nereides 
in  Shirley,  and  a  few  such,  complete  the  list.  We  shall 
select  one  as  an  example,  perhaps  the  finest,  yet  closely  re- 
sembling in  all  important  particulars  the  others.  It  is  the 
personification  of  nature  in  the  second  volume  of  Shirley :  — 


CURRER    BELL.  413 

"  The  gray  church,  and  grayer  tombs,  look  divine  with 
this  crimson  gleam  on  them.  Nature  is  now  at  her  even- 
ing prayers  ;  she  is  kneeling  before  those  red  hills.  I  see 
her  prostrate  on  the  great  steps  of  her  altar,  praying  for  a 
fair  night  for  mariners  at  sea,  for  travellers  in  deserts,  for 

lambs  in  moors,  and  unfledged  birds  in  woods 

I  saw  —  I  now  see  —  a  woman-Titan :  her  robe  of  blue  air 
spreads  to  the  outskirts  of  the  heath,  where  yonder  flock  is 
grazing;  a  veil,  white  as  an  avalanche,  sweeps  from  her 
head  to  her  feet,  and  arabesques  of  lightning  flame  on  its 
borders.  Under  her  breast  I  see  her  zone,  purple  like  that 
horizon ;  through  its  blush  shines  the  star  of  evening.  Her 
steady  eyes  I  cannot  picture — they  are  clear,  they  are  deep 
as  lakes,  they  are  lifted  and  full  of  worship,  they  tremble 
with  the  softness  of  love  and  the  lustre  of  prayer.  Her 
forehead  has  the  expanse  of  a  cloud,  and  is  paler  than  the 
early  moon,  risen  long  before  dark  gathers ;  she  reclines 
her  bosom  on  the  ridge  of  Stilbro'  Moor,  her  mighty  hands 
are  joined  beneath  it.  So  kneeling,  face  to  face  she  speaks 
with  God." 

We  have  nothing  in  the  poetry  of  Currer  Bell  to  com- 
pare with  this.  There  seems  to  us  a  grandeur  of  concep- 
tion, a  strength  and  sweep  of  line,  a  calm  and  beautiful 
glow  of  color,  a  Grecian  harmony  and  finish,  in  the  whole 
creation,  which  would  render  no  epithet  of  applause  ex- 
travagant. It  has  the  unity  of  poetry.  Had  it  been 
wrapped  in  a  garment  of  metrical  harmony,  it  would  have 
been  recognized  as  one  of  the  most  powerful  and  beautiful 
personifications  in  the  range  of  our  poetic  literature.  We 
might  speak  in  similar  terms  of  her  pictures  of  the  Mer- 
maid and  the  Nereides.  By  the  wizard  and  plastic  might 
of  her  imagination,  the  sea-woman  of  the  North  is  once 
more  informed  with  life,  and  glares  appalling  from  the 
35* 


414  CURRER    BELL. 

ridge  of  the  wave.  By  the  same  original  energy,  the 
poetic  dream  of  the  old  Greek  mind  is  rescued  from  en- 
veloping oblivion,  and  the  daughters  of  Nereus,  filmy  as 
the  foam  amid  which  they  glide,  rise  spectral  before  us, 
as  they  might  to  the  eyes  of  the  young  bard  of  Hellas, 
wandering  belated  by  the  moonlit  surge  of  the  iEgean. 
Passages  of  solitary  brilliancy  are  of  frequent  occurrence 
in  all  our  more  imaginative  prose  writers.  Apostrophic 
bursts  and  long  elaborate  similes  are  abundantly  to  be  met 
with.  But  the  clear  and  separate  creation  of  poetry,  the 
group  or  the  figure,  fairly  chiselled  from  the  flawless  mar- 
ble and  left  forever  in  the  loneliness  of  their  beauty,  we 
know  not  to  have  been  ever  formally  introduced  into  Eng- 
lish prose,  save  by  Currer  Bell. 

The  peculiar  strength  of  Currer  Bell  as  a  novelist  can  be 
pointed  out  in  a  single  word.  It  is  that  to  which  allusion 
was  made  in  speaking  of  Wuthering  Heights;  the  delinea- 
tion of  one  relentless  and  tyrannizing  passion.  In  hope,  in 
ardor,  in  joy,  with  proud,  entrancing  emotion,  such  as 
might  have  filled  the  breast  of  him  who  bore  away  the  fire 
of  Jove,  love  is  wooed  to  the  breast.  But  a  storm  as  of 
fate  awakens :  the  blue  sky  is  broken  into  lightnings,  and 
hope  smitten  dead ;  and  now  the  love  which  formerly  was 
a  dove  of  Eden  is  changed  into  a  vulture,  to  gnaw  the 
heart,  retained  in  its  power  by  bands  of  adamant.  As  the 
victim  lies  on  his  rock,  the  whole  aspect  of  the  world 
changes  to  his  eye.  Ordinary  pleasures  and  ordinary  pains 
are  impotent  to  engage  the  attention,  to  assuage  the  tor- 
ment. No  dance  of  the  nymphs  of  ocean  attracts  the  wan 
eye,  or  for  a  moment  turns  the  vulture  aside.  Such  a 
passion  is  the  love  of  Rochester  for  Jane,  perhaps  in  a 
somewhat  less  degree,  that  of  Jane  for  Rochester;  such, 
slightly  changed  in  aspect,  is  the  passion  beneath  which 


CURRER    BELL.  415 

Caroline  pines  away,  and  that  which  convulses  the  brave 
bosom  of  Shirley.  With  steady  and  daring  hand,  Currer 
Bell  depicts  this  agony  in  all  its  stages ;  we  may  weep  and 
tremble,  but  we  feel  that  her  nerves  do  not  quiver,  that 
her  eye  is  unfilmed.  So  perfect  is  the  verisimilitude,  nay 
the  truth,  of  the  delineation,  that  you  cannot  for  a  moment 
doubt  that  living  hearts  have  actually  throbbed  with  like 
passion.  It  is  matter,  we  believe,  of  universal  assent,  that 
Currer  Bell  here  stands  almost  alone  among  the  female 
novelists  of  Britain,  and  we  doubt  whether,  however  they 
surpass  her  in  the  variety  of  their  delineations,  there  is  any 
novelist  of  the  other  sex  who,  in  this  department,  has 
exhibited  greater  power. 

What  positive  lesson,  we  ask  finally,  moral  or  intellectual, 
did  Currer  Bell  read  to  her  age?  The  question  can  be 
simply  and  briefly  answered.  In  her  works,  there  is  a 
universal  assertion  of  rights  and  emotions  stamped  by  the 
seal-royal  of  nature,  against  the  usurpations  of  avarice  and 
mode.  The  passion  which  is  kindled  really  by  nature, 
though  the  hearts  in  which  it  glows  may  be  far  asunder, 
shall  burn  its  way,  through  station,  through  prejudice, 
through  all  obstacles  that  can  oppose  it,  until  the  fires 
unite,  and  rise  upwards  in  one  white  flame.  The  true  love 
of  Rochester  for  the  governess  he  employs,  the  true  love 
of  the  rich  and  brilliant  Shirley  for  her  tutor,  must  finally 
triumph:  Nature  and  Custom  contend,  and  the  "anarch 
old"  goes  down.  It  is  always  so;  the  sympathy  with 
nature's  strength  and  reality  is  unchanging.  Poltroonery, 
too,  of  all  sorts,  baseness,  feeble  pretension,  and  falsehood, 
are  crowned  with  their  rightful  scorn.  Valor,  fortitude, 
strength  of  will,  and  all  the  stalwart  virtues  that  bear  the 
world  before  them,  are  honored  and  illustrated.  The  great 
duty  of  submission,  without  fainting  or  murmuring,  to  the 


416  CURRER    BELL. 

decrees  of  Providence,  is  proclaimed  with  overwhelming 
power,  and  indeed  with  an  iteration  which  makes  us  at 
times  fain  to  cry  out,  that  this  is  Currer  Bell's  one  lecture, 
which  we  may  expect  at  any  moment  to  be  held  by  the 
button-hole  to  hear.  "I  disapprove  everything  Utopian. 
Look  life  in  its  iron  face,  stare  reality  out  of  its  brassy 
countenance : "  this  is  the  gist  of  all  her  moralizing.  The 
lesson,  however,  belongs  to  the  stern  and  practical  ethics 
of  life,  not  easily  rendered  trite,  and  we  deem  worthy  of 
special  remark  a  particular  instance  in  which  we  have  it, 
or  one  nearly  allied  to  it,  is  enforced ;  in  all  the  fiction  we 
ever  read,  we  could  point  to  no  case  of  instruction,  at 
once  so  practical,  so  impressive,  and  so  precious.  It  is  a 
particular  touch  in  the  delineation  of  the  triumph  of  reso- 
lution and  principle  in  the  breast  of  Jane  Eyre.  The 
conflict  is  at  its  height.  Reason  and  conscience  falter,  and 
will  give  no  clear  decision;  they  seem  inclined  rather  to 
regard  surrender  as  a  less  evil  than  the  possible  .-aiicide  of 
Rochester.  Then  it  is  that  the  epic  heroism  of  little  Jane, 
while  it  reaches  the  climax  of  its  grandeur,  reaches  also  the 
height  of  its  practical  value.  "  I  had  no  solace  from  self- 
approbation:  not  even  from  self-respect.  I  had  injured  — 
wounded  —  left  my  master.  I  was  hateful  in  my  own  eyes. 
Still,  I  could  not  turn,  nor  retrace  one  step.  God  must 
have  led  me  on.  As  to  my  own  will  or  conscience,  impas- 
sioned grief  had  trampled  one,  and  stifled  the  other."  The 
same  phase  of  her  agony  had  been  presented  shortly  before, 
and  perhaps  with  still  greater  force.  We  believe  this  no 
mere  imaginary  picture.  There  are  situations  in  life  when 
blackness  is  overhead  and  desolation  within,  and  not  any- 
thing remains  but  an  indestructible,  unaccountable,  scarce 
conscious  instinct  of  duty ;  when  the  soul  may  be  likened 
to  one  who  clings  to  a  rope  in  a  swoon,  while  a  great  billow 


CURRER    BELL.  417 

goes  over  him,  and  his  only  chance  is,  that  the  senseless 
hand  still  holds  spasmodically  on.  In  the  hour  of  sorest 
need,  the  figure  of  that  invincible  girl  may  rise,  with  a  look 
of  real  and  potent  encouragement,  to  steel  many  a  heart  to 
defy  the  devil  to  the  last. 

The  assertion  of  what  we  may  call  the  sacredness  of 
natural  emotion,  in  its  natural  modes  of  action,  made  by 
Currer  Bell,  merits  an  attention  altogether  peculiar.  There 
are  few  subjects  on  which  we  would  speak  with  greater 
emphasis.  It  relates  to  a  part  of  the  system  of  natural 
ethics  which  Christians  are  most  apt  to  neglect,  but  of 
which  the  neglect  is  as  pernicious  as  it  is  indefensible.  Has 
it  not  a  somewhat  singular  sound,  to  talk  of  the  Christian 
duty  of  permitting  in  the  formation  of  the  nuptial  tie  (nay, 
of  enjoining  and  insisting  on)  the  free  play  of  the  natural 
affections?  Is  it  not  widely  customary,  for  men  and 
women,  ready  to  die  in  defence  of  Christian  principle, 
anxiously  and  prayerfully  shaping  their  lives  by  the  teach- 
ing of  the  New  Testament,  either  themselves  to  marry,  or 
to  lend  their  sanction  to  marriages,  in  which  it  is  well 
known  and  deliberately  contemplated,  that  no  feeling  of 
intense  attachment,  no  love,  exists  in  the  breast  of  either 
party  ?  Men  whom  it  would  be  hard  not  to  call  excellent, 
clergymen  especially,  regard  entrance  upon  the  married 
state  as  a  part  of  the  formal  and  mechanical  business  of 
life.  At  a  certain  age,  the  duties  of  the  parish  are  entered 
upon,  the  manse  is  furnished,  and  then,  for  various  reasons, 
of  comfort,  of  economy,  of  respectability,  a  wife  is  u  taken." 
Young  persons  of  the  other  sex  are,  so  far  as  we  can  judge, 
equally  apt  to  look  upon  marriage  with  no  sense  of  the  fact 
that  affection  is  here  one  with  duty,  and  its  absence  a  sin. 
Parents,  again,  as  will  occur  to  every  one,  though  of  sincere 
and  habitual  piety,  though  desirous  of  promoting  the  best 


418  CUKKEK    BELL. 

interests  of  their  children,  and  while  deeply  concerned  that 
their  daughters  are  wedded  to  men  of  position  and  means, 
of  integrity  and  ability,  nay,  of  religion,  will  pass  over,  or 
lightly  shuffle  by,  all  questions  touching  capacity  of  affec- 
tion or  sympathy  of  nature.  Yet  one  would  think  a  single 
look  beneath  the  outermost  vail  of  appearance  might  con- 
vince all  that,  with  the  answers  practically  rendered  to  such 
questions  as  these,  is  vitally  and  indissolubly  connected  the 
real  happiness,  or  the  bitter  misery,  of  after  life.  One 
would  imagine,  too,  that  it  required  no  very  penetrating 
inquisition  into  the  laws  of  things,  to  discover  that,  on  the 
original  settlement  of  such  questions,  depend  unnumbered 
influences,  of  the  most  intimate  and  inevitable  kind,  affect- 
ing the  moral  and  religious  condition  of  the  community. 
One  would  think,  last  of  all,  that  it  required  a  studious  and 
habitual  opposition  to  the  plainest  teaching  of  the  gospel,  or 
a  blindness  wholly  marvellous  to  the  nature  of  that  teaching, 
to  persist  in  meeting  with  a  direct  negative  the  Christian 
view  of  marriage.  The  teachings  of  nature  and  of  Chris- 
tianity are  here  in  the  strictest  and  most  beautiful  accord- 
ance. Nature  and  experience  testify,  for  their  part,  that  a 
lifetime  of  cohabitation,  where  there  is  no  natural,  mutual, 
overpowering  attraction,  no  love,  is  not  only  a  lifetime  of 
chronic  suffering,  an  imprisonment  in  "polar  ice,"  but  a 
condition  in  which  each  noble  and  genial  emotion  is  met 
by  a  subtle  poison,  pervading  the  moral  atmosphere,  by  a 
biting  frost-wind,  where  it  ought  to  have  found  the  balmiest 
sunshine,  by  chilling  and  withering  sleet,  where  nature 
would  have  prepared  for  it  gentle,  fostering  rain.  Look- 
ing beyond  the  individual  victims  of  such  a  rebellion 
against  nature,  to  those  to  whom  they  are  related  as 
parents,  the  aspects  of  the  case,  holding  still  by  the  light 
of  mere  experience  and  common  sense,  are,  if  possible,  still 


CURRER    BELL.  419 

more  obvious  and  impressive.  The  education  of  the  family 
circle,  no  one  will  dispute,  is  the  most  important  of  all.  It 
may  not  be  a  matter  of  so  common  reflection,  that  the  part 
of  this  education,  which  consists  in  express  precepts  and 
oral  instruction,  is  of  trivial  importance  compared  with  the 
silent,  practical  education  of  parental  life,  from  the  respon- 
sibility of  which  the  parent  never  escapes  for  a  moment, 
and  of  which  the  influence,  searching  and  perpetual,  can  be 
counteracted  by  no  set  words,  however  earnest  and  well 
studied  !  If  the  parents  are  not  united  by  a  love  which,  in 
its  fervid  intensity,  sets  them  apart  from  the  rest  of  the 
world,  and  causes  every  other  earthly  feeling  to  revolve  in 
an  orbit  comparatively  remote,  the  unity  of  the  family  circle 
is  broken.  A  fatal  element  insinuates  itself  into  the  affec- 
tion with  which  the  children  are  regarded.  They  are 
taught  by  the  presence  of  no  mighty  and  beautiful  emotion 
in  those  to  whom  they  look  up,  to  know  the  happiness  of 
pure  affection,  to  admire  it,  to  aspire  after  it.  For  the  first 
few  years  of  life,  the  parent  is  to  the  child,  with  hardly  any 
qualification,  in  the  place  of  God.  The  home  is  the  first 
temple  in  which  man  worships.  The  parent  is  the  imper- 
sonation of  perfection.  And  if,  in  striving  after  that  perfec- 
tion, as  the  child  will  do  almost  before  he  can  speak,  he  is 
guided  by  no  melodious  harmony  of  parental  love,  embrac- 
ing his  parents  and  uniting  in  himself,  his  whole  nature, 
intellectual  as  well  as  moral,  may  from  the  first  be  stunted. 
The  influences  of  which  we  speak  are  not  such  as  can  be  mi- 
nutely defined :  could  they  be  so,  they  would  be  slight.  But 
it  is  impossible,  on  fair  consideration,  to  deny  their  supreme 
power.  It  is  the  enactment  of  nature,  visible  in  every  depart- 
ment of  the  physical  universe,  that  the  life  of  the  parent,  in 
its  substance  and  its  form,  be,  so  to  speak,  stamped  upon  the 
offspring.     No  discordance  can  enter  into  parental  exist- 


420  CURRER    BELL. 

ence,  without  marking  itself  in  the  character  and  life  of  the 
child.  The  assumptions  of  mode  and  affectation  may  fall 
away,  but  the  deepest  nature  will  be  transmitted.  The 
face  may  be  unmoved  before  the  world,  the  breast  may  lie, 
sternly  placid,  over  the  beating,  burning  heart,  but  a  drop 
of  the  internal  agony,  with  all  its  power  to  paralyze  emotion 
and  embitter  life,  will  find  its  way  into  the  bosom  of  the 
offspring.  And  if  all  this  belongs  to  the  most  practical  and 
homely  truth  of  nature,  Christianity  is  not  less  but  more 
explicit.  It  is  strange  and  anomalous  that  ideas,  so  poor 
and  dishonoring,  of  the  formation  of  the  nuptial  relationship 
should  prevail,  considering  the  august  and  peculiar  place 
accorded  to  that  relationship  by  Scripture.  The  family 
relations  are  those  habitually  chosen  to  illustrate  the  most 
sublime  conceptions  which  are  brought  by  Scripture  before 
the  mind  of  man,  —  the  relations  between  the  Persons  of 
the  Trinity  and  the  Saviour  and  his  church.  St.  Paul  does 
not  scruple  to  make  the  love  entertained  by  Christ  for  his 
redeemed  the  model  and  measure  of  connubial  affection. 
The  Creator  in  Paradise  gave  this  feeling  the  express  pre- 
eminence over  all  others :  the  Saviour  affirmed  his  words. 
It  is  impossible  to  reflect  earnestly  on  the  deep-lying  and 
wonderful  threads  of  connection,  which  run  through  Scrip- 
ture and  human  history,  through  Christianity  and  nature, 
without  perceiving  that  the  emotion,  crowned  by  the 
Creator  in  Paradise,  signally  honored  by  the  Saviour,  and 
measured  by  Paul  by  an  infinite  standard,  is  that  which 
plays,  in  the  natural  world,  so  strange  and  prominent  a 
part ;  grouping  around  itself  all  comedy  and  tragedy,  the 
life  of  literature  and  art,  the  source  of  half  the  nobleness 
and  half  the  crime  of  human  history,  unique  in  its  nature 
and  irresistible  in  its  influence,  undefinable  by  any  but  in 
some  way  conceived  of  by  all,  and  known  distinctively  by 


CURRER    BELL.  421 

the  name  of  love.  It  admits  of  no  doubt  that  the  existence 
of  this  emotion  is  the  sign  appointed  by  God  in  nature  for 
the  formation  of  the  nuptial  tie,  that  this  is  one  of  the  great 
correspondences  which  pervade  the  system  of  things,  as 
that  of  reason  to  truth,  that  of  conscience  to  rectitude,  that 
of  vision  to  the  objects  of  perception,  that  of  climate  to 
natural  productions.  Without  this  affection  the  nuptial 
unity  is  impossible ;  marriage,  in  the  sense  of  nature  and 
Scripture,  cannot  be.  And  yet  the  Christian  world  very 
generally,  if  not  very  explicitly,  coincides  with  the  idea  of 
Johnson  that  marriages  might  be  well  enough  arranged  by 
the  chancellor !  That  the  rest  of  the  world  is,  in  all  practi- 
cal points,  as  much  to  blame  here  as  that  calling  itself 
distinctively  Christian,  is  probably  the  fact.  But  it  is  to 
books  not  belonging  to  strictly  Christian  literature,  that 
one  would  point,  for  the  most  emphatic  assertion  of  theo- 
retic truth  in  the  matter.  In  the  conclusion  of  his  essay  on 
Mirabeau,  Mr.  Carlyle  takes  occasion,  from  certain  circum- 
stances in  the  history  of  his  hero,  to  set  his  fiery  finger  on 
this  great  social  commandment.  And  we  concentrate  in 
brief  compass  a  critique  on  the  writings  of  Currer  Bell, 
when  we  say  that  their  central  doctrine  for  the  reconstitu- 
tion  of  social  ethics,  their  one  remedy  for  the  cure  of  social 
ills,  is  the  permission  of  free  play  to  the  passion  of  love, 
and  the  abolition  of  its  counterfeits. 

There  being,  therefore,  much  of  what  is  stirring  and; 
healthful  in  the  works  of  Currer  Bell,  can  we  close  with  a 
declaration  that  the  region  in  which  her  characters  move  is 
the  highest  and  purest,  and  that  she  has  solved,  or  hinted 
how  we  may  solve,  the  social  problems  which  at  present 
confront  the  earnest  and  practical  mind  ?  We  cannot. 
We  must  record  our  distinct  and  unalterable  negative  in 
either  case.     The  truth  she  proclaims  is  one  sided.     Her 

JBHK8T  SERIES.  36 


422  CURRER    BELL. 

scheme  of  life  is  too  narrow.  The  pleasures  and  sufferings 
of  existence  do  not  all  depend  on  one  emotion  though  it  be 
that  of  love,  on  one  passion  though  itself  be  right.  Her 
works  are  the  ovation  of  passion.  It  may  be  true,  it  may 
be  noble,  it  may  be  allied  with  principle,  but  Passion  is 
ever  the  conqueror  and  king;  The  joys  of  existence  which 
have  any  real  point,  the  sorrows  which  have  any  real 
bitterness,  are  alike  in  the  dispensation  of  Passion.  Is 
more  than  a  word  necessary  to  make  this  assertion  good  ? 
Who  sees  not  more  to  be  desired  in  the  very  anguish 
of  the  love  of  Caroline  or  Shirley,  than  in  the  blanched 
existence  of  Miss  Ainley?  Do  we  not  mark  St.  John 
Rivers  go  away,  joyless  and  marble-cold,  on  his  high 
mission,  while  Passion  welcomes  back  Jane  to  his  burning, 
bliss-giving  arms  ?  Where  Passion  appears,  all  becomes 
real  and  alive :  where  Passion  is  not,  the  widest  philan- 
thropy, the  holiest  devotion,  are  powerless  to  confer  happi- 
ness. And  shall  we  thus  crown  Passion,  and  bend  the 
knee  before  him  ?  By  no  means.  Passion,  when  alone,  is 
essentially  and  ignobly  selfish.  Despite  a  barren  kindness 
of  heart,  the  existence  of  Rochester  is  utterly  selfish.  Sis 
luckless  marriage,  his  impure  loves,  his  interesting  sorrows, 
have  eaten  up  the  substance  of  his  life.  One  would  say, 
were  he  a  sound  example,  that  a  man  was  linked  by  no 
duties  to  his  fellows,  that,  in  a  world  like  this,  a  man, 
without  being  coward  or  caitiff,  could  be  occupied  solely 
by  self.  "Love  thy  neighbor  as  thyself:"  know  thyself  a 
unit  among  millions :  perform  the  duties  God  has  assigned 
thee  towards  thyself,  but  value  not  that  self  beyond  any 
other  of  a  million  units.  How  thorough  the  reversal  of  the 
whole  manner  of  Mr.  Rochester's  existence,  which  would 
have  been  wrought  by  the  simple  adoption,  as  its  leading 
principle,  of  this  divine  motto  of  Christian  philanthropy,  in 


CURRER    BELL.  423 

which  is  bound  up  the  regeneration  of  the  world !  There 
must  be  a  love  higher  than  that  of  mere  passion.  There 
must  be  joys,  moral,  intellectual,  spiritual,  whose  pure  oil 
can  make  the  lamp  of  life  burn  as  clearly  and  cheerfully  as 
the  flame  of  passion,  and  far  more  beautifully.  To  say 
otherwise,  were  to  utter  a  libel  upon  nature,  to  impugn  the 
justice  and  love  of  God.  Of  a  love,  pure  and  lofty,  allying 
us  to  God  and  man,  illumining  the  universe  around  us  with 
the  mingled  lights  of  heaven  and  home,  Currer  Bell  gives 
no  representation,  nay,  she  gives  a  caricature,  which,  while 
wondrous  in  execution,  is  utterly  false.  St.  John  had  no 
affection  for  Jane  which  could  be  named  love.  It  is  to  be 
regretted  that  she  did  not  think  of  cutting  short  all  his 
fine  speeches,  by  simply  pointing  him  to  the  measure 
allotted  to  connubial  affection  by  Paul,  and  telling  him 
that,  unless  he  felt  within  him  the  power  to  love  her  as  his 
own  soul,  nay,  with  an  unutterable  force  of  affection  to  be 
compared  with  the  infinite  love  of  Christ  for  his  own  body, 
his  own  church,  he  committed  a  sin  in  asking  her  to 
become  his  wife.  There  is  an  altar  on  which  terrestrial 
and  celestial  love  can  blend  their  fires.  If  passion  is  the 
whole  of  love,  it  must  debase  and  not  ennoble. 

When  we  speak  of  those  practical  problems,  on  which 
Currer  Bell  has  touched,  but  which  she  has  not  solved,  we 
refer  specially  to  the  dreary  pictures  she  draws  in  Shirley 
of  the  social  standing  of  woman.  Marriage,  we  are  told,  is 
the  one  hope  of  the  great  majority  of  England's  daughters, 
a  hope  destined  in  countless  cases  to  be  never  realized.  A 
youth  of  scheming  inanity,  deriving  a  faint  animation  from 
this  hope,  must  fade  into  a  blighted  and  solitary  age.  The 
authority  of  a  lady  may  be  taken  as  conclusive  of  the  state 
of  the  case  here ;  but  when  we  assent  to  her  allegations, 
and  paragraph  after  paragraph  has  impressed  them  on  our 


424  CURRER    BELL. 

minds,  we  have  no  more,  by  way  of  remedy,  than  a  sentence 
of  general  and  valueless  exhortation  to  fathers  to  cultivate 
the  minds  .of  their  daughters.  There  is  nothing  in  the 
works  of  Currer  Bell  to  assure  us  that  any  amount  of 
cultivation  will  produce  fresh  and  satisfying  happiness, 
unless  that  one  wish  which  she  points  to  is  gratified.  She 
indicates  no  fields  of  pleasure  accessible  to  all.  She  exhibits 
not  the  means  of  the  cultivation  she  commends,  and  leaves 
us  to  guess  the  connection  between  culture  and  enjoyment. 
The  hand  of  this  gifted  woman  had  power,  we  think,  to 
paint  a  daughter  of  England  gladdening  and  beautifying 
her  existence,  though  the  light  of  passion  never  rose  upon 
her  path.    But  this  she  has  not  done. 


The  publication  of  Mrs.  Gaskell's  most  interesting  and 
valuable  biography  of  Currer  Bell  might  seem  to  require 
the  addition  of  certain  qualifying  remarks  to  the  preceding. 
Not  the  slightest  modification,  however,  has  been  felt  to  be 
necessary  in  the  view  given  of  the  genius  and  aims  of  the 
authoress.  But  there  are  two  circumstances  brought  to 
light  in  this  biography,  which  have,  in  themselves,  an  inter- 
est and  importance  justifying  particular  observation.  The 
first  is,  that  the  artistic  instinct  of  Currer  Bell  was,  in  one 
chief  instance,  more  piercing  and  accurate,  more  strictly  in 
accordance  with  the  verities  of  life  and  nature,  than  that 
general  mode  of  thought  which  ruled  her  habitual  and 
practised  opinions.  The  central  doctrine  of  her  works  was 
found  to  be  the  sacredness  of  the  natural  affections  in  the 
formation  of  the  marriage  relationship  —  the  necessity  of 


CURRER    BELL.  425 

the  existence  of  a  distinctive  feeling,  called  love,  in  every 
such  case.  It  is  impossible  to  imagine  that,  in  those  works, 
this  necessity  is  asserted  in  reference  to  the  man,  but  not  in 
reference  to  the  woman.  All  the  power  of  the  authoress  is 
exerted  to  set  in  strong  colors  the  sense  which  Shirley  has  of 
the  dishonor  done  to  her  and  to  himself  by  Robert  Moore, 
when  he  proposes  to  marry  her  without  loving  her :  and  all 
that  is  claimed  for  woman  in  what  Currer  Bell  wrote  would 
be  at  once  given  up,  by  the  concession,  that  it  would  have 
been  right  and  natural  in  Shirley  to  marry  Moore,  while  feel- 
ing towards  him  as  he  felt  towards  her.  But  when  Currer 
Bell  became  Charlotte  Bronte,  when  she  ceased  to  be  the 
artist  and  became  the  woman,  she  made  this  concession.  In 
so  many  words,  she  declared  that  "  respect,"  entertained  by 
a  woman  for  a  man,  was  a  feeling  which  could  justify  her  in 
marrying  him.  Moore  respected  Shirley  very  deeply ;  and 
Currer  Bell  pours  out  on  him  in  full  measure  the  burning 
fountains  of  her  scorn,  for  having,  in  that  state  of  feeling, 
proposed  marriage ;  but  the  heart  of  Shirley  was  not  so 
sacred  or  precious  a  gift,  but  that  it  might  have  been  given 
with  a  cold  hand ;  not  love  but  respect  would  have  justified 
her  in  blending  her  being  with  another.  But  Charlotte 
Bronte  shall  not  prevail  against  Currer  Bell :  this  common- 
place surrender  to  the  dreariest  working  of  social  mechanism 
shall  not  invalidate  the  magnificent  protests  of  genius.  The 
second  circumstance  revealed  by  the  biography  of  Currer 
Bell  which  demands  a  word  of  notice,  is  antithetically  con- 
trasted with  the  first.  In  the  one,  the  woman  was  less 
true  than  the  authoress :  in  the  other,  the  authoress  is  less 
true  than  the  woman.  In  words  clear  and  forcible  as  those 
which  it  was  her  habit  to  use,  Charlotte  Bronte  expressed 
her  conviction,  that  a  noble  and  every  way  admirable  life 


426  CURRER    BELL. 

could  be  led  by  a  woman,  with  no  aid  from  passion,  with  no 
thought  of  marriage.  And  with  this  opinion  for  every  day 
practice,  the  portrait  given  in  her  works  of  one  leading 
such  a  life  is  Miss  Ainlie,  and  the  place  accorded  to  passion 
in  the  dispensation  of  happiness  such  as  was  seen. 


ENT>   OF  FIKST  SEEIES. 


VALUABLE 

LITERAET  AND  SCIENTIFIC  WORKS, 

PUBLISHED     BY 

GOULD    AND    LINCOLN, 

59  WASHINGTON  STREET,  BOSTON. 


ANNUAL  OP  SCIENTIFIC  DISCOVERY  FOR  1859;  or,  Year- 
Book  of  Facts  in  Science  and  Art,  exhibiting  the  most  important  Discoveries  and  Improve- 
ments in  Mechanics,  Useful  Arts,  Natural  Philosophy,  Chemistry,  Astronomy,  Meteorol- 
ogy, Zoology,  Botany,  Mineralogy,  Geology,  Geography,  Antiquities,  &c,  together  with  a 
list  of  recent  Scientific  Publications  ;  a  classified  list  of  Patents  ;  Obituaries  of  eminent 
Scientific  Men  ;  an  Index  of  Important  Papers  in  Scientific  Journals,  Reports,  &c.  Ed« 
ited  by  David  A.  Wells,  A.  M.  With  a  Portrait  of  Prof.  0.  M.  Mitchell.  12mo,  cloth, 
$1.25. 

Volumes  of  the  same  Work  for  years  1850  to  1858  inclusive.  With  Portraits  of  Profess, 
ors  Agassiz,  Silliman,  Henry,  Bache,  Maury,  Hitchcock,  Richard  M.  Hoe,  Profs.  Jef- 
fries Wyman,  and  H.  D.  Rogers.    Nine  volumes,  12mo,  cloth,  $1.25  per  vol. 

This  work,  issued  annually,  contains  all  important  facts  discovered  or  announced  during  tht 
year. 

ay  Each  volume  is  distinct  in  itself,  and  contains  entirely  new  matter. 

INFLUENCE  OF  THE  HISTORY  OF  SCIENCE  UPON  IN- 
TELLECTUAL EDUCATION.  By  William  Whewell,  D.  D.,  of  Trinity 
College,  Eng.,  and  the  alleged  author  of  "  Plurality  of  Worlds."    12mo,  cloth,  25  cts. 

THE   NATURAL   HISTORY  OF  THE   HUMAN   SPECIES;  Its 

Typical  Forms  and  Primeval  Distribution.  By  Charles  Hamilton  Smith.  With  an 
Introduction  containing  an  Abstract  of  the  views  of  Blumenbach,  Prichard,  Bachman, 
Agassiz,  and  other  writers  of  repute.  By  Samuel  Kneeland,  Jr.,  M.  D.  With  elegant 
Illustrations.    12mo,  cloth,  $1.25. 

"  The  marks  of  practical  good  sense,  careful  observation,  and  deep  research,  are  displayed  in 
every  page.  The  introductory  essay  of  some  seventy  or  eighty  pages  forms  a  valuable  addition  to 
the  work.  It  comprises  an  abstract  of  the  opinions  advocated  by  the  most  eminent  writers  on  this 
subject.  The  statements  are  made  with  strict  impartiality,  and,  without  a  comment,  left  to  the 
judgment  of  the  reader."  —  Sartain's  Magazine. 

KNOWLEDGE  IS  POWER.  A  View  of  the  Productive  Forces  of  Modern 
Society,  and  the  Results  of  Labor,  Capital,  and  Skill.  By  Charles  Knight.  With 
numerous  Illustrations.  American  Edition.  Revised,  with  Additions,  by  David  A. 
Wells,  Editor  of  the  "  Annual  of  Scientific  Discovery."    12mo,  cloth,  $1.25. 

05^-  This  is  emphatically  a  book  for  the  people.  It  contains  an  immense  amount  of  important 
information,  which  everybody  ought  to  be  in  possession  of;  and  the  volume  should  be  placed  in 
every  family,  and  in  every  School  and  Public  Library  in  the  land.  The  facts  and  illustrations  are 
drawn  from  almost  every  branch  of  skilful  industry,  and  it  is  a  work  which  the  mechanic  and  arti- 
san of  every  description  will  be  sure  to  read  with  a  relish.  (2 5) 


WORKS  OF  HUGH  MILLEE. 

THE  OLD  RED  SANDSTONE  ;  or,  New  Walks  in  an  Old  Field.  Illustrated 
with  Plates  and  Geological  Sections.  New  Edition,  Revised  and  much  Enlarged, 
by  the  addition  of  new  matter  and  new  Illustrations,  etc.     12mo,  cloth,  $1.25. 

This  edition  contains  over  one  hundred  pages  of  entirely  new  matter,  from  the  pen  of  Hugh 
Miller.  It  contains,  also,  several  additional  new  plates  and  cuts,  the  old  plates  re-engraved  and 
improved,  and  an  Appendix  of  new  Notes. 

"  It  is  withal  one  of  the  most  beautiful  specimens  of  English  composition  to  be  found,  convey- 
ing information  on  a  most  difficult  and  profound  science,  in  a  style  at  once  novel,  pleasing,  and 
elegant." — Dr.  S  Prague  —  Albany  Spectator. 

THE  FOOT-PRINTS  OP  THE  CREATOR;  or,  the  Asterolepis  of  Strom- 
ness,  with  numerous  Illustrations.  With  a  Memoir  of  the  Author,  by  Louis  Agassu. 
12mo,  cloth,  $1.00. 

Db.  Buckland  said  he  would  give  his  left  hand  t*  possess  such  power  of  description  as  this  man, 

TESTIMONY"  OP  THE  ROCKS;  or,  Geology  in  its  Bearings  on  the  two 
Theologies,  Natural  and  Revealed.  "Thou  shalt  be  in  league  with  the  stones  of  the 
field."—  Job.  With  numerous  elegant  Illustrations.  One  volume,  royal  12mo,  cloth, 
$1.25. 

This  is  the  largest  and  most  comprehensive  Geological  Work  that  the  distinguished  author  haa 
y6t  published.  It  exhibits  the  profound  learning,  the  felicitous  style,  and  the  scientific  perception, 
Which  characterize  his  former  works,  while  it  embraces  the  latest  results  of  geological  discovery. 
But  the  great  charm  of  the  book  lies  in  those  passages  of  glowing  eloquence,  in  which,  having 
spread  out  his  facts,  the  author  proceeds  to  make  deductions  from  them  of  the  most  striking  and 
exciting  character.  The  work  is  profusely  illustrated  by  engravings  executed  at  Paris,  in  the  highest 
style  of  French  art. 

THE  CRUISE  OP  THE  BETSEY;  or,  a  Summer  Ramble  among  the  Fossil, 
iferous  Deposits  of  the  Hebrides.  With  Rambles  of  a  Geologist  ;  or,  Ten  Thousand 
Miles  over  the  Fossiliferous  Deposits  of  Scotland.     12mo,  cloth,  $1.25. 

Nothing  need  be  said  of  it  save  that  it  possesses  the  same  fascination  for  the  reader  that  charac- 
terizes the  author's  other  works. 

MY"  SCHOOLS  AND  SCHOOLMASTERS;  or,  the  Story  of  my  Educa. 
tion.  An  Autobiography.  With  a  full-length  Portrait  of  the  Author.  12mo,  cloth, 
$1.25. 

This  is  a  personal  narrative,  of  a  deeply  interesting  and  instructive  character,  concerning  one  of 
the  most  remarkable  men  of  the  age. 

MY"  FIRST  IMPRESSIONS  OP  ENGLAND  AND  ITS  PEOPLE. 

With  a  fine  Engraving  of  the  author.     12mo,  cloth,  $1.00. 

ffif  A  very  instructive  book  of  travels,  presenting  the  most  perfectly  life-like  views  of  England 
and  its  people  to  be  found  in  any  language. 

Q3~  The  above  six  volumes  are  furnished  in  sets,  printed  and  bound  in  uniform  style :  viz., 

HUGH  MILLER'S  "WORKS,  Six  Volumes.  Elegant  embossed  cloth,  $7.00 » 
library  sheep,  $8.00  ;  half  calf,  $12.00  ;  antique,  $12.00. 

MACAULAY  ON  SCOTLAND.  A  Critique,  from  the  « Witness."  16mo, 
flexible  cloth,  25  cts.  (23) 


IMPORTANT  NEW  WORKS. 

CYCLOPEDIA    OP    ANECDOTES    OP    LITERATURE    AND 

THE  PINE  ARTS.  Containing  a  copious  and  choice  Selection  of  Anecdotes 
of  the  various  forms  of  Literature,  of  the  Arts,  of  Architecture,  Engravings,  Music, 
Poetry,  Painting,  and  Sculpture,  and  of  the  most  celebrated  Literary  Characters  and 
Artists  of  different  Countries  and  Ages,  &c.  By  Kazlitt  Arvine,  A.  M.,  author  of 
u  Cyclopaedia  of  Moral  and  Religious  Anecdotes."  With  numerous  Illustrations.  725  pp. 
octavo.     Cloth,  $3.00  ;  sheep,  $3.50  ;  cloth,  gilt,  $4.00  ;  half  calf,  $4.00. 

This  is  unquestionably  the  choicest  collection  of  Anecdotes  ever  published.  It  contains  three 
thousand  and  forty  Anecdotes:  and  such  is  the  wonderful  variety,  that  it  will  be  found  an  almost 
inexhaustible  fund  of  interest  for  every  class  of  readers.  The  elaborate  classification  and  Indexes 
must  commend  it  especially  to  public  speakers,  to  the  various  classes  of  literary  and  scientific  men, 
to  artists,  mechanics,  and  others,  as  a  Dictionary  for  reference,  in  relation  to  facts  on  the  num- 
berless subjects  and  characters  introduced.  There  are  also  more  than  one  hundred  and  fifty  fine 
Illustrations. 

THE  LIFE  OP  JOHN  MILTON,  Narrated  in  Connection  with  the  Political, 
Ecclesiastical,  and  Literary  History  of  his  Time.  By  David  Masson,  M.A.,  Professor 
of  English  Literature,  University  College,  London.  Vol.  i.,  embracing  the  period  from 
1608  to  1639.  With  Portraits,  and  specimens  of  his  handwriting  at  different  periods. 
Royal  octavo,  cloth,  $0.00. 

This  important  work  will  embrace  three  royal  octavo  volumes.  By  special  arrangement  with 
Prof.  Masson,  the  author,  G.  &  L.  are  permitted  to  print  from  advance  sheets  furnished  them,  as 
the  authorized  American  publishers  of  this  magnificent  and  eagerly  looked  for  work.  "Volumes  two 
and  three  will  follow  in  due  time  ;  but,  as  each  volume  covers  a  definite  period  of  time,  and  also 
embraces  distinct  topics  of  discussion  or  history,  they  will  be  published  and  sold  independent  of 
each  other,  or  furnished  in  sets  when  the  three  volumes  are  completed. 

THE   G-REYSON  LETTERS.    Selections  from  the  Correspondence  of  R.  E.  H. 

Greyson,  Esq.     Edited  by  Hknry  Rogers,  author  of  "  Eclipse  of  Faith."    12mo,  cloth, 

$1.25. 

"  Mr.  Greyson  and  Mr.  Rogers  are  one  and  tho  same  person.  The  whole  work  is  from  his  pen, 
and  every  letter  is  radiant  with  the  genius  of  the  author.  It  discusses  a  wide  range  of  subjects,  in 
the  most  attractive  manner.  It  abounds  in  the  keenest  wit  and  humor,  satire  and  logic.  It  fairly 
entitles  Mr.  Rogers  to  rank  with  Sydney  Smith  and  Charles  Lamb  as  a  wit  and  humorist,  and  with 
Bishop  Butler  as  a  reasoner.  Mr.  Rogers'  name  will  share  with  those  of  Butler  and  Pascal,  in  the 
gratitude  and  veneration  of  posterity."  —  London  Quarterly. 

"  A  book  not  for  one  hour,  but  for  all  hours  ;  not  for  one  mood,  but  for  every  mood  ;  to  think 
over,  to  dream  over,  to  laugh  over."  —  Boston  Journal. 

"  The  Letters  are  intellectual  gents,  radiant  with  beauty,  happily  intermingling  the  grave  and 
the  gay.  —  Christian  Observer. 

ESSAYS  IN  BIOGRAPHY  AND  CRITICISM.       By  Peter  Bayne,  M. 

A.,  author  of  "The  Christian   Life,  Social  and  Individual."    Arranged  in  two  Series,  or 

Parts.     12mo,  cloth,  each,  $1.25. 

These  volumes  have  been  prepared  by  the  author  exclusively  for  his  American  publishers,  and 
are  now  published  in  uniform  style.    They  include  nineteen  articles,  viz.  : 

First  Series  :— Thomas  De  Quincy.  —  Tennyson  and  his  Teachers.  —  Mrs.  Barrett  Brown- 
ing.—Recent  Aspects  of  British  Art. —John  Ruskin.  — Hugh  Miller.  — The  Modern  Novel; 
Dickens,  &c.  —  Ellis,  Acton,  and  Currer  Bell. 

Second  Series  :— Charles  Kingsley.  —  S.  T.  Coleridge. -* T.  B.  Macaulay.  — Alison..- Wel- 
lington. —Napoleon.  —  Plato.  —  Characteristics  of  Christian  Civilization.  —  The  Modern  University. 
"  The  Pulpit  and  the  Press.  —  Testimony  of  the  Rocks  :  a  Defence. 

\TCSITS  TO  EUROPEAN  CELEBRITIES.  By  the  Rev.  William  B. 
Sprague,  D.  D.     12mo,  cloth,  $1.00  ;  cloth,  gilt,  $1.50. 

A  series  of  graphic  and  life-like  Personal  Sketches  of  many  of  the  most  distinguished  men  and 
women  of  Europe,  portrayed  as  the  Author  saw  them  in  their  own  homes,  and  under  the  most 
advantageous  circumstances.  Besides  these  "  pen  and  ink  "  sketches,  the  work  contains  the  novel 
attraction  af  a.  facsimile  of  the  sxanature  of  each  of  the  persons  introduced.  (2  8) 


VALUABLE  TEXT-BOOKS. 

THE  LECTURES  OP  SIB  "WILLIAM  HAMILTON,  BART.,  lat* 

Professor  of  Logic  and  Metaphysics,  University  of  Edinburgh;  embracing  the  Metaphysi. 
cal  and  Logical  Courses  ;  with  Notes,  from  Original  Materials,  and  an  Appendix,  con- 
taining the  Author's  Latest  Development  of  his  New  Logical  Theory.  Edited  by  Rev. 
Henry  Longueville  Mansel,  B.  D.,  Prof,  of  Moral  and  Metaphysical  Philosophy  in 
Magdalen  College,  Oxford,  and  John  Veitch,  M.  A.,  of  Edinburgh.  In  two  royal  octavo 
volumes,  via., 

I.  Metaphysical  Lectures  (now  ready).    Royal  octavo,  cloth. 

II.  Logical  Lectures  (in  preparation). 

IK?*  G.  &  L.,  by  a  special  arrangement  with  the  family  of  the  late  Sir  William  Hamilton,  are 
the  Authorized  American  Publishers  of  this  distinguished  author's  matchless  Lectures  on  Met- 
aphysics and  Logic,  and  they  are  permitted  to  print  the  same  from  advance  sheets  furnished, 
them  by  the  English  publishers. 

MENTAL  PHILOSOPHY;  Including  the  Intellect,  the  Sensibilities,  and  the 
Will.  By  Joseph  Haven,  Prof,  of  Intellectual  and  Moral  Philosophy,  Amherst  College. 
Royal  12mo,  cloth,  embossed,  $1.50. 

It  is  believed  this  work  will  be  found  pre-eminently  distinguished. 

1.  The  Completeness  with  which  it  presents  the  whole  subject.  Text-books  generally  treat 
of  only  one  class  of  faculties  •,  this  work  includes  the  whole.  2.  It  is  strictly  and  thoroughly  Sci- 
entific. 3.  It  presents  a  careful  analysis  of  the  mind,  as  a  whole.  4.  The  history  and  literature 
of  each  topic.  5.  The  latest  results  of  the  science.  6.  The  chaste,  yet  attractive  style.  7.  The 
remarkable  condensation  of  thought. 

Prof.  Park,  of  Andover,  says  :  "  It  is  distinguished  for  its  clearness  of  style,  perspicuity  of 
method,  candor  of  spirit,  acumen  and  comprehensiveness  of  thought." 

The  work,  though  so  recently  published,  has  met  with  most  remarkable  success  ;  having  bees 
already  introduced  into  a  large  number  of  the  leading  colleges  and  schools  in  various  parts  of  tho 
tountry,  and  bids  fair  to  take  the  place  of  every  other  work  on  the  subject  now  before  the  public 

THESAURUS  OP  ENGLISH  WOBDS  AND  PHRASES,  so  classi- 
fied and  arranged  as  to  facilitate  the  expression  of  ideas,  and  assist  in  literary  composi- 
tion. New  and  Improved  Edition.  By  Peter  Mark  Roget,  late  Secretary  of  the  Royal 
Society,  London,  &c.  Revised  and  edited,  with  a  List  of  Foreign  Words  defined  in  Eng- 
lish, and  other  additions,  by  Barnas  Sears,  D.  D.,  President  of  Brown  University.  A 
New  American  Edition,  with  Additions  and  Improvements.    12mo,  cloth,  $1.50. 

This  edition  is  based  on  the  London  edition,  recently  issued.  The  first  American  Edition  hav- 
ing been  prepared  by  Dr.  Sears  for  strictly  educational  purposes,  those  words  and  phrases  properly 
termed  "  vulgar,"  incorporated  in  the  original  work,  were  omitted.  These  expurgated  portions  have, 
in  the  present  edition,  been  restored,  but  by  such  an  arrangement  of  the  matter  as  not  to  inters 
fere  with  the  educational  purposes  of  the  American  editor.  Besides  this,  it  contains  important 
additions  of  words  and  phrases  not  in  the  English  edition,  making  it  in  all  respects  more  full  arid 
perfect  than  the  author's  edition.  The  work  has  already  become  one  of  standard  authority,  both 
in  this  country  and  in  Great  Britain. 

PALEY'S  NATURAL  THEOLOGY.  Illustrated  by  forty  Plates,  with 
Selections  from  the  Notes  of  Dr.  Paxton,  and  Additional  Notes,  Original  and  Selected, 
with  a  Vocabulary  of  Scientific  Terms.  Edited  by  John  Ware,  M.  D.  Improved  edition, 
with  elegant  newly  engraved  plates.    12mo,  cloth,  embossed,  $1.25. 

This  work  is  very  generally  introduced  into  our  best  Schools  and  Colleges  throughout  the  coun- 
try. An  entirely  new  and  beautiful  set  of  Illustrations  has  recently  been  procured,  which,  with 
•ther  improvements,  render  it  the  best  and  most  complete  work  of  the  kind  extant. 

(38) 


VALUABLE    WORKS. 

THE  PURITANS ;  or  the  Court,  Church,  and  Parliament  of  England,  during  the 
reigns  of  Edward  VI.  and  Elizabeth.    By  Samuel  Hopkins,  author  of  "  Lessons  at  the 
Cross,"  etc.    In  3  vols.    Vol.  I.  now  ready.     Octavo,  cloth,  per  vol.,  $2.50. 
Vol.  II.  ready  in  February,  "  "       "     "      $2.50. 

It  will  be  found  the  most  interesting  and  reliable  History  of  the  Puritans  yet  published,  narrating 
in  a  dramatic  style  many  facts  hitherto  unknown. 

LIMITS  OF  RELIGIOUS  THOUGHT  EXAMINED,  in  Eight  Lec- 
tures delivered  in  the  Oxford  University  Pulpit,  in  the  year  1858,  on  the  "  Bampton 
Foundation."  By  Rev.  H.  Longueville  Mansel,  B.  D.,  Reader  in  Moral  and  Meta- 
physical Philosophy  at  Magdalen  College,  Oxford,  and  Editor  of  Sir  William  Hamilton's 
Lectures.  With  the  Copious  Notes  translated  for  the  American  Ed.  12mo, cloth,  $1.00. 

This  volume  is  destined  to  create  a  profounder  sensation  in  this  country  than  any  philosophical 
or  religious  work  of  this  century.  It  is  a  defence  of  revealed  religion,  equal  in  ability  to  the 
"  Analogy  "  of  Bishop  Butler,  and  meets  the  scepticism  of  our  age  as  effectually  as  that  great  work 
in  an  earlier  day.  The  Pantheism  and  Parkerism  infused  into  our  popular  literature  will  here  find 
an  antidote.  The  Lectures  excited  the  highest  enthusiasm  at  Oxford,  and  the  Volume  has  already 
reached  a  third  edition  in  England.  The  copious  "  Notes  "  of  the  author  having  been  translated 
for  the  American  edition  by  an  accomplished  scholar,  adds  greatly  to  its  value. 

THE  HISTORICAL  EVIDENCES  OP  THE  TRUTH  OP  THE 
SCRIPTURE  RECORDS,  STATED  ANEW,  with  Special  Reference 
to  the  Doubts  and  Discoveries  of  Modern  Times.  In  Eight  Lectures,  delivered  in  the 
Oxford  University  pulpit,  at  the  Bampton  Lecture  for  1859.  By  Geo.  Rawlinson,  M.A., 
Editor  of  the  Histories  of  Herodotus.  With  the  Copious  Notes  translated  for  the 
American  Edition  by  an  accomplished  scholar.    12mo,  cloth,  $1.00. 

SIR   WILLIAM   HAMILTON'S    LECTURES    ON   LOGIC.    With 

Notes  from  Original  Materials,  and  an  Appendix  containing  the  Latest  Development  of 
his  New  Logical  Theory.  Edited  by  Prof.  H.  Longueville  Mansel,  Oxford,  and 
John  Veitch,  M.  A.,  Edinburgh.    Royal  octavo,  cloth,  $3.00.     (In  press.) 

MORAL  PHILOSOPHY,  including  Theoretical  and  Practical  Ethics.  By  Jo- 
seph Haven,  D.  D.,  late  Professor  of  Moral  and  Intellectual  Philosophy  in  Amkerst 
College  •,  author  of  "  Mental  Philosophy."    Royal  12mo,  cloth,  embossed,  $1.25. 

It  is  eminently  scientific  in  method,  and  thorough  in  discussion,  and  its  views  on  unsettled  ques- 
tions in  morals  are  discriminating  and  sound.  It  treats  largely  of  Political  Ethics—  a  department 
of  morals  of  great  importance  to  American  youth,  but  generally  overlooked  in  text-books.  In  the 
history  of  ethical  opinions  it  is  unusually  rich  and  elaborate. 

POPULAR  GEOLOGY;  With  Descriptive  Sketches  from  a  Geologist's  Portfolio. 
By  Hugh  Miller.  With  a  Resume  of  the  Progress  of  Geological  Science  during  the 
last  two  years.     By  Mrs.  Miller.     I2mo,  cloth,  $1.25. 

This  work  is  likely  to  prove  the  most  popular  of  Hugh  Miller's  writings,  and  to  attain  the  widest 
circulation.  It  is  written  in  his  best  style,  and  makes  the  mysteries  of  Geology  intelligible  to  the 
common  mind.  As  an  architect  explains  the  structure  of  a  house  from  cellar  to  attic,  so  this  ac- 
complished geologist  takes  the  globe  to  pieces,  and  explains  the  manner  in  which  all  its  strata  have 
been  formed,  from  the  granite  foundation  to  the  alluvial  surface.  It  supplies  just  the  information 
which  many  readers  have  been  longing  for,  but  unable  to  find.    Also, 

HUGH  MILLER'S  "WORKS.  Seven  volumes,  uniform  style,  in  an  elegant 
box,  embossed  cloth,  $8.25  ;  library  sheep,  $10.00  ;  half  calf,  $14.00 ;  antique,  $14.00. 

MANSEL'S  MISCELLANIES;  including  "Prolegomina  Logica,"  "Meta- 
physics," "  Limits  of  Demonstrative  Evidence,"  "  Philosophy  of  Kant,"  etc.  12mo,  cloth. 
{In  press.)  (38) 


IMPORTANT    WORKS. 

LIFE  AND  CORRESPONDENCE  OF  REV.  DANIEL  WIL- 
SON, D.  D.,  late  Bishop  of  Calcutta.  By  Rev.  Josiah  Bateman,  M.  A.,  Rector  of 
North  Cray,  Kent.  With  Portraits,  Map,  and  numerous  Illustrations.  One  Volume, 
Royal  octavo,  cloth,  $3.00. 

BRITISH  NOVELISTS  AND  THEIR  STYLES.  Being  a  Critical 
Sketch  of  the  History  of  British  Prose  Fiction.  By  David  Masson,  M.  A.,  Author  of 
"  The  Life  and  Times  of  John  Milton,"  etc.  etc.     16mo,  cloth,  75  cts. 

This  charming  volume  will  find  its  way  to  many  American  homes,  and  win  for  its  author  a  place 
by  the  side  of  the  masters  of  English  Fiction,  of  whom  he  discourses  so  pleasantly. 

THE  LEADERS  OF  THE  REFORMATION.  Luther,  Calvin,  Lati- 
mer and  Knox,  the  Representative  Men  of  Germany,  France,  England,  and  Scotland. 
By  J.  Tulloch,  D.  D.,  Author  of  "Theism,"  etc.     12mo,  cloth,  $1.00. 

A  portrait  gallery  of  sturdy  reformers,  drawn  by  a  keen  eye  and  a  strong  hand.  Dr.  Tulloch 
discriminates  clearly  the  personal  qualities  of  each  Reformer,  and  commends  and  criticises  with 
equal  frankness. 

LESSONS  AT  THE  CROSS;  or,  Spiritual  Truths  Familiarly  Exhibited  in  their 
Relations  to  Christ.  By  Samuel  Hopkins,  author  of  "  The  Puritans."  With  an  Intro- 
duction by  Rev.  George  W.  Blagden,  D.  D.    New  Edition.    16mo,  cloth,  75  cts. 

THE  CRUCIBLE ;  or  Tests  of  a  Regenerate  State  ;  designed  to  bring  to  light  sup- 
pressed hopes,  expose  false  ones,  and  confirm  the  true.  By  Rev.  J.  A.  Goodhue,  A.  M. 
With  an  Introduction  by  Rev.  E.  N.  Kirk,  D.  D.     12mo,  cloth,  $1.00. 

A  volume  of  peculiar  originality  and  power.  It  presents  novel,  original  and  startling  views.  It 
places  within  the  Christian  fold  many  who  claim  no  place  there  ;  cuts  off  from  it  many  who  con- 
sider themselves  entitled  to  all  its  privileges,  and  applies  tests  of  spiritual  character,  which  are 
vitally  distinct  from  those  which  are  current  in  the  popular  religion  of  the  day.  It  is  one  of  the 
books  to  be  read,  marked  and  inwardly  digested. 

GOTTHOLD'S  EMBLEMS  ;  or,  Invisible  Things  Understood  by  Things  that 
are  Made.  By  Christian  Scriver,  Minister  of  Magdeburg  in  1671.  Translated  from 
the  Twenty-eighth  German  Edition  by  the  Rev.  Robert  Menzies.  8vo,  cloth,  $1.00 ; 
cloth,  bevelled  boards,  $1.25  ;  cloth,  bevelled  boards,  red  edges,  $1.25.  Fine  Edition, 
Tinted  Paper,  royal  8vo,  cloth,  $1.50  ;  cloth  gilt,  $2.00  ;  half  Turkey  morocco,  $4.00  j 
Turkey  morocco,  $5.Q0. 

Its  singular  merits  will  soon  make  it  a  favorite  in  American  households  ;  for  all  readers  will 
pronounce  it  the  most  fascinating  of  devotional  books.  It  teaches  how  to  find  God  everywhere, 
and  to  carry  devotion  into  the  humblest  duties  of  daily  life.  Its  juicy  thoughts  and  rich  sugges- 
tions have  an  equal  charm  for  the  scholar  and  the  unlearned. 

THE  GREAT  CONCERN ;  or,  Man's  Relation  to  God  and  a  Future  State.  By 
Nehemiah  Adams,  D.  D.    12mo,  cloth,  85  cts. 

Pungent  and  affectionate,  reaching  the  intellect,  conscience,  and  feelings ;  admirably  fitted  to 
awaken,  guide,  and  instruct.  The  book  is  just  the  thing  for  wide  distribution  in  our  congrega- 
tions. —  N.  T.  Observer. 

EVENINGS  "WITH  THE  DOCTRINES.  By  Rev.  Nehemiah  Adams,  D.D. 
12mo,  cloth.    (In  preparation.) 

THE  STILL  HOUR  ;  or,  Communion  with  God.  By  Prof.  Austin  Phelps,  D.D., 
of  Andover  Theological  Seminary.     16mo,  cloth,  50  cts. 

CHRIST  IN  HISTORY.  By  Robert  Tubnbull,  D.D.  A  New  and  Enlarge* 
Edition.    12mo,  cloth,  $1.25.  (39) 


IMPORTANT    NEW    WORKS. 

THE  CHRISTIAN  LIFE  :    Social  and  Individual.    By  Peter  Bayne.  A  M 

12mo.     Cloth.     #1.25. 

Contents.—  Part  I.  Statement.  I.  The  Individual  Life.  II.  The  Social  Lite. 
Part  II.  Exposition  and  Illustration.  Book  I.  Christianity  the  Basis  oj 
Social  Life  1.  First  Principles.  II.  Howard;  and  the  rise  oi  Philanthropy.  III. 
Wilberforce;  and  the  development  of  Philanthropy.  IV.  Budgett;  the  Christian 
Freeman.  V.  The  social  problem  of  the  age,  and  one  or  two  hints  towards  its  solution. 
Book  II.  Christianity  the  Basis  of  Individual  Cliaracter.  I.  Introductory:  a  few 
Words  on  Modern  Doubt.  II.  John  Foster.  III.  Thomas  Arnold.  IV.  Thomaf 
Chalmers.  Pakt  III.  Outlook.  I.  The  Positive  Philosophy.  II.  Pantheist  it 
Spiritualism.     111.  General  Conclusion. 

Particular  attention  is  invited  to  this  work.  In  Scotland,  its  publication,  durinj 
the  last  winter,  produced  a  great  sensation.  Hugh  Miller  made  it  the  subject  of  he 
elaborate  review  in  his  paper,  the  Edinburgh  Witness,  and  gave  his  readers  to  under- 
stand that  it  was  an  extraordinary  work.  The  "  News  of  the  Churches,"  the  month!} 
organ  of  the  Scottish  Free  Church,  was  equally  empbatic  in  its  praise,  pronouncing 
it  "the  religious  book  of  the  season."  Strikingly  original  in  plan  and  brilliant  iu 
execution,  it  far  surpasses  the  expectations  raised  by  the  somewhat  familiar  title.  It 
is,  in  truth,  a  bold  onslaught  (and  the  first  of  the  kind)  upon  the  Pantheism  of  Carlyle, 
Fichte,  etc.,  by  an  ardent  admirer  of  Carlyle;  and  at  the  same  time  an  exhibition  cJ 
the  Christian  Life,  in  its  inner  principle,  and  as  illustrated  in  the  lives  of  Howard 
Wilberforce,  Bu<i  ;ett,  Foster.  Chalmers,  eto.  The  brilliancy  and  vigor  of  the  author  s 
style  are  remarkable  • 

PATRIARCHY;  or,  the  Family,  its  Constitution  and  Proba  By  Johh 

Harms,  D.  D.,  President  of  "  New  College,"  London,  and  author  of  44  The 
Great  Teacher  "  "  Mammon,"  "  Pre- Adamite  Earth,"  "  Man  Primeval,"  etc 
12mo.    Cloth.    $1.25.     K7"  A  new  work  of  great  interest. 
This  is  the  third  and  last  of  a  series,  by  the  same  author,  entitled  "  Contributions 
to  Theological  Science."    The  plan  of  this  series  is  highly  original,  and  has  been 
most  successfully  executed.    Of  the  two  first  in  the  series,  '•  Pre- Adamite  Earth"  and 
"  Man  Primeval,"  we  have  already  issued  four  and  five  editions,  and  the  demand 
still  continues.    The  immense  sale  of  all  Dr.  Harris's  works  attest  their  intrinsic 
worth.    This  volume  contains  most  important  information  and  instruction  touching 
the  family—  its  nature  and  order,  parental  instruction,  parental  authority  and  gov- 
ernment, parental  responsibility,  &c.    It  contains,  in  fact,  such  a  fund  of  valuable 
information  as  no  pastor,  or  head  of  a  family,  can  afford  to  dispense  with. 

GOD  REVEALED  IN  NATURE  AND  IN  CHRIST:  Including  a  Refutation 
of  the  Development  Theory  contained  in  the  "  Vestiges  of  the  Natural  History 
of  Creation."  By  the  Author  of  "  The  Philosophy  of  the  Plan  of  Salt 
VATION."    12mo.     Cloth.     $1.00. 

I'hk  author  of  that  remarkable  book,  "  The  Philosophy  of  the  Plan  of  Salvation  ' 
ha  devoted  several  years  of  incessant  labor  to  the  preparation  of  this  work.  Without 
being  specifically  controversial,  its  aim  is  to  overthrow  several  of  the  popular  error 
ol  the  day,  by  establishing  the  antagonist  truth  upon  an  impregnable  basis  of  reaso.i 
■lid  logic.  In  opposition  to  the  doctrine  of  a  mere  subjective  revelation,  now  so 
plausibly  inculcated  by  certain  eminent  writers,  it  demonstrates  the  necessity  A  an 
external,  objective  revelation.  Especially,  it  furnishes  a  new,  and  as  it  is  conceived, 
a  conclusive  argument  against  the  "  development  theory  "  so  ingeniously  maintained 
in  the  u  Vestiges  of  the  Natural  History  of  Creation."  As  this  author  does  not  pub- 
lish except  when  h*>  has  something  to  say,  there  is  good  reason  to  anticipate  that  the 
work  will  be  one  of  unusual  interest  and  value.  His  former  book  has  met  with  tlit 
most  signal  success  in  ^oth  hemispheres,  having  passed  through  numerous  edition* 
in  England  and  Scotiana,  and  been  translated  into  four  of  the  European  langup^at 
tosides     It  *s  also  about  to  be  translated  into  the  Hiudoo6tanee  tonjiue  Um 


AMOS    LAWRENCE. 


DIARY  AND  CORRESPONDENCE  OF  THE  LATE  AMOS  LAW- 
RENCE ;  with  a  brief  account  of  some  Incidents  in  his  Life.  Edited  by  hi.s  son, 
William  K.  Lawrenck,  M.  D.  Witli  line  steel  Portraits  of  Amos  and  Abbott 
Lawrence,  an  Engraving  of  their  Birth-place,  a  Eac-simile  page  of  Mr.  Law- 
rence's Hand-writing,  and  a  copious  Index.  Octavo  edition,  cloth,  $1.50.  Royal 
duodecimo  edition,  §1.00. 

This  work  was  first  published  in  an  elegant  octavo  volume,  and  sold  at  the  unusu- 
ally low  price  of  $1.50.  At  the  solicitation  of  numerous  benevolent  individuals  who 
were  desirous  of  circulating  the  work— so  remarkably  adapted  to  do  good,  especially 
to  young  men— gratuitously,  and  of  giving  those  of  moderate  means,  ol  every  class,  an 
opportunity  of  possessing  it,  the  royal  duodecimo,  or  "  cheap  edition,''''  was  issued, 
varying  from  the  other  edition,  Only  in  a  reduction  in  the  size  (allowing  less  margin  £ 
and  the  thickness  of  the  paper. 

Within  six  mouths  alter  the  first  publication  of  this  work,  twenty-two  thousand 
copies  had  been  sold.  This  extraordinary  sale  is  to  be  accounted  for  by  the  character 
of  the  man  and  the  merits  of  the  book.  It  is  the  memoir  of  a  Boston  merchant,  who 
became  distinguished  for  his  great  wealth,  but  more  distinguished  for  the  manner  in 
which  he  used  it.  It  is  the  memoir  of  a  man,  who,  commencing  business  with  only 
$20,  gave  away  in  public  and  private  charities,  during  his  lifetime  more,  probably, 
than  any  other  person  in  America.  It  is  substantially  an  autobiography,  containing 
a  full  account  ol  Mr.  Lawrence's  career  as  a  merchant,  of  his  various  multiplied  chan- 
ties, and  of  his  domestic  life. 

"  We  have  by  us  another  wc  rk,  the  '  Life  of  Amos  Lawrence.'  "We  heard  it  once  said  in  the  pulpit, 
'  There  is  no  work  of  art  like  a  noble  life,'  and  for  that  reason  he  who  has  achieved  one,  takes  rank 
with  the  great  artists  and  becomes  the  world's  property.    We  are  proud  of  this  book.    We  are 

WILLING    TO    LET    IT    GO    FORTH    TO     OTHER    LANDS    AS    A    SPECIMEN  OF  WHAT  AMERICA  CAN 

produce.  In  the  old  world,  reviewers  have  called  Barnum  the  characteristic  American  man.  We 
are  willing  enough  to  admit  that  he  is  a  characteristic  American  man  ;  he  is  one  fruit  of  our  soil, 
but  Amos  Lawrence  is  another.  Let  our  country  have  credit  for  him  also.  The  good  effect 
which  this  Life  may  have  in  determining  the  course  of  young  men  to  honor  and 
Virtue  in  incalculable."— Mrs.  Stowk,  in  N.  Y.  Independent. 

"  We  are  glad  to  know  that  our  large  business  houses  are  purchasing  copies  of  this  work  for  each 
of  their  numerous  clerks.  Its  influence  on  young  men  cannot  be  otherwise  than  highly  salutary. 
As  a  business  man,  Mr.  Lawrence  was  a  pattern  for  the  young  clerk."— Boston  Traveller. 

M  We  are  thankful  for  the  volume  before  us.  It  carries  us  back  to  the  farm-house  of  Mr.  Law* 
rence's  birth,  and  the  village  store  of  his  first  apprenticeship.  It  exhibits  a  charity  noble  and  active, 
while  the  young  merchant  was  still  poor.  And  above  all,  it  reveals  to  us  a  beautiful  cluster  of  sister 
graces,  a  keen  sense  of  honor,  integrity  which  never  knew  the  shadow  of  suspicion,  candor  in  the 
estimate  of  character,  filial  piety,  rigid  fidelity  in  every  domestic  relation,  and  all  these  connected 
with  and  flowing  from  steadfast  religious  principle,  profound  sentiments  of  devotion,  and  a  vivid 
realization  of  spiritual  truth."— North  American  Review. 

"  We  are  glad  that  American  Biography  has  been  enriched  by  such  a  contribution  to  its  treasures. 
In  all  that  composes  the  career  of  '  the  good  man,'  and  the  practical  Christian,  we  have  read  few 
memoirs  more  full  of  instruction,  or  richer  in  lessons  of  wisdom  and  virtue.  We  cordially  unite  in 
the  opiuion  that  the  publication  of  this  memoir  was  a  duty  owed  to  society." —National  Intel- 
ligences. 

"With  the  intention  of  placing,  it  within  the  reach  of  a  large  number,  the  mere  cost  price  is 
•harged,  and  a  more  beautifully  printed  volume,  or  one  calculated  to  do  more  good,  has  not  been 
Issued  from  the  press  of  late  years."— Evening  Gazette. 

"  This  book,  besides  being  of  a  different  class  from  most  biographies,  has  another  peculiar  charm. 
It  shows  the  inside  life  of  the  man.  You  have,  as  it  were,  a  peep  behind  the  curtain,  and  see  Mr. 
Lawrence  as  he  went  in  and  out  among  business  men,  as  he  appeared  on  'change,  as  he  received 
his  friends,  as  he  poured  out,  'with  liberal  hand  and  generous  heart,'  his  wealth  for  the  bent-  r 
of  others,  as  he  received  the  greetings  and  salutations  of  children,  and  as  he  appeared  in  the  bo»i>iu 
of  his  family  at  his  own  hearth  stone."— Bruns.vick  Telegraph. 

"  Tt  is  printed  on  new  type,  the  best  paper,  and  is  illustrated  by  four  beautiful  plates.  How  it  can 
be  sold  for  the  price  named  is  a  marvel."— Norfolk  Co.  Journal. 

"It  was  first  privvtely  printed,  and  a  limited  number  of  copies  were  distributed  among  the 
rt -lnti  ves  and  near  friends  of  the  deceased.  This  volume  was  read  with  the  deepest  interest  by  those 
wlio  were  so  favored  as  to  obtain  a  copy,  and  it  passed  from  friend  to  friend  as  rapidly  as  it  could  be 
read.  Dr.  Lawrence  has  yielded  to  the  general  wish,  and  made  public  the  volume.  It  will  now  be 
widely  circulated,  will  certainly  prove  a  standard  work,  and  be  read  over  and  over  again.'V-BoS' 
ro.\-  Dailt  Advertiser. 


VALUABLE  WORKS. 

ILLUSTRATIONS  OF  SCRIPTURE.  Suggested  by  a  Tour  through  the 
Holy  Land.  With  numerous  Illustrations.  A  New,  Improved  and  Enlarged  Edition. 
By  H.  B.  Hackett,  D.  D.,  Prof,  of  Biblical  Literature  in  the  Newton  Theological 
Institution }  author  of  "  A  Commentary  on  The  Acts  of  the  Apostles,"  etc.  12mo,  cloth, 
$1.00. 

A  COMMENTARY  ON  THE  EPISTLE  TO  THE  EPHESIANS, 
Explanatory,  Doctrinal  and  Practical.  With  a  Series  of  Questions.  By  Robert  E. 
Pattison,  D.  D.,  late  President  of  Waterville  College.    12mo,  cloth,  85  cts. 

This  Commentary  contains  the  very  marrow  of  the  Gospel,  unfolding,  from  a  single  Epistle,  the 
■cheme  of  Divine  mercy  through  Jesus  Christ.  It  will  instruct  young  disciples,  and  feed  older 
saints  ;  and  the  questions  annexed  will  make  it  a  useful  text-book  in  Bible  Classes. 

THEOPNEUSTIA.  — THE  BIBLE;  ITS  DIVINE  ORIGIN  AND 
INSPIRATION ;  Deduced  from  Internal  Evidence,  and  the  Testimonies  of  Na- 
ture, History,  and  Science.  By  L.  Gaussen,  D.  D.  New  and  Revised  Edition,  with 
Analysis  and  Topical  Index.    12mo,  cloth,  $1.00. 

HISTORICAL  VINDICATIONS;  or,  the  Province  and  Uses  of  Baptist 
History.  With  Appendixes  containing  Historical  Notes  and  Confessions  of  Faith.  By 
S.  S.  Cutting,  D.  D.,  Professor  of  Rhetoric  and  History  in  the  University  of  Rochester. 
12mo,  cloth,  75  cts. 

An  admirable  contribution  to  Baptist  History,  tracing  the  origin  and  rapid  growth  of  Baptist 
principles  in  England  at  the  time  of  the  Reformation,  and  suggesting  important  lessons  for  future 
guidance.    The  Appendixes  contain  historical  facts  worth  two-fold  the  price  of  the  volume. 

KIND  "WORDS  FOR  CHILDREN,  to  Guide  them  to  the  Path  of  Peace. 
By  Rev.  Harvey  Newcomb,  author  of  "How  to  be  a  Man,"  "How  to  be  a  Lady," 
"  Harvest  and  Reapers,"  etc.    16mo,  cloth,  42  cts. 

A  simple  and  beautiful  exposition  of  the  doctrines  and  duties  of  the  Gospel,  in  language  and 
with  illustrations  adapted  to  children. 

We  wish  every  mother  would  buy  it,  read  it,  and  cause  its  contents  to  be  engraved  on  the  hearts 
of  her  children.  —  Recorder. 

THE  PSALMIST,  WITH  MUSIC;  a  Manual  for  the  service  of  Sacred  Song 
in  Baptist  Congregations  and  Choirs ;  the  Tunes  being  adapted  to  the  collection  of 
Hymns  compiled  by  Baron  Stow  and  S.  F.  Smith.  Collated  by  B.  F.  Edmands, 
Conductor  of  Music  at  Baldwin  Place  Church,  Boston.  With  a  Supplement,  contain- 
ing a  variety  of  Chants,  and  Selections  of  Scripture  for  chanting.  Royal  12mo, 
cloth,  arabesque,  $1.00. 

This  Manual  embraces  all  the  Hymns  of  the  Psalmist,  with  one  or  more  tunes  adapted  to 
every  hymn.  The  tunes  have  been  selected  with  great  care  and  rare  judgment,  by  B.  F.  Edmands, 
Esq.,  a  gentleman  of  fine  musical  taste,  a  chorister  for  many  years  in  one  of  our  largest  churches, 
and  an  active  manager  of  several  of  our  leading  musical  societies.  They  are  chiefly  taken 
from  the  approved  standard  tunes,  whose  long  use  and  popularity  in  the  churches  attest  their  fit- 
ness for  congregational  singing.  The  convenient  size  of  the  Manual,  its  cheapness,  its  judicious 
arrangement,  as  well  as  its  admirable  selection  of  tunes,  give  it  important  advantages  over  every 
other  Manual  for  public  worship.  Baptist  congregations  already  using  the  Psalmist,  —  which  is 
almost  universal  throughout  the  denomination.  — can  introduce  this  new  edition,  with  Music, 
at  very  trifling  expense.  No  change  of  books  will  be  needed  for  those  who  do  not  join  in  the  sing- 
ing. The  numbering  of  hymns  is  the  same  in  all  editions,  and  the  full  and  perfect  Indexes  enable 
minister  or  people  to  refer  from  one  edition  to  the  other  without  difficulty.  Only  those  who  wish 
to  sing,  and  to  have  the  tunes  before  them,  will  need  the  new  edition  with  Music,  and  the  great 
expense  incident  to  an  entire  change  of  hymn-books  will  be  avoided. 

THE  SAME  WORK,  WITH  A  SUPPLEMENT,  containing  a  Selec- 
tion of  Hymns,  by  Richard  Fuller  and  J.  B.  Jeter,  in  place  of  the  "  Chants  an* 
Selections  for  Chanting,"  $1.00.  ,±q\ 


THESAURUS  OF  ENGLISH  WORDS  AND  PHRASES. 

So  Classified  and  Arranged  as  to  Facilitate  the  Expression  of  Ideas,  and  Assist 
in  Literary  Composition.  By  Peter  Mark  Roget,  late  Secretary  of  the  Royal 
Society,  and  author  of  the  "  Bridgewater  Treatise,"  etc.  Revised  and  En- 
larged; with  a  List  of  Foreign  Words  and  Expressions  most  frequently 
occurring  in  works  of  general  Literature,  Defined  in  English,  by  Barnas 
Sears,  D.  D.,  Secretary  of  the  Massachusetts  Board  of  Education,  assisted  by 
several  Literary  Gentlemen.     12mo.,  cloth.     #1.50. 

J85r"  A  work  of  great  merit,  admirably  adapted  as  a  text-book  for  schools  and  colleges,  and 
cf  high  importance  to  every  American  scholar.  Among  the  numerous  commendations  re- 
ceived from  the  press,  in  all  directions,  the  publishers  would  call  attention  to  the  following  : 

We  are  glad  to  see  the  Thesaurus  of  English  Words  republished  in  this  country.  It  is  a  most 
taluable  work,  giving  the  results  of  many  years'  labor,  in  an  attempt  to  classify  and  arrange 
the  words  of  the  English  tongue,  so  as  to  facilitate  the  practice  of  composition.  The  purpose 
of  an  ordinary  dictionary  is  to  explain  the  meaning  of  words,  while  the  object  of  this  Thesaurus 
is  to  collate  all  the  words  by  which  any  given  idea  may  be  expressed.  —  Putnam's  Monthly. 

This  volume  offers  the  student  of  English  composition  the  results  of  great  labor  in  the  form 
of  a  rich  and  copious  vocabulary.  We  would  commend  the  work  to  those  who  have  charge 
of  academies  and  high  schools,  and  to  all  students.  —  Christian  Observer. 

This  is  a  novel  publication,  and  is  the  first  and  only  one  of  the  kind  ever  issued  in  which 
words  and  phrases  of  our  language  are  classified,  not  according  to  the  sound  of  their  orthog- 
raphy, but  strictly  according  to  their  signification.  It  will  become  an  invaluable  aid  in  the 
communication  of  our  thoughts,  whether  spoken  or  written,  and  hence,  as  a  means  of  improve- 
ment, we«an  recommend  it  as  a  work  of  rare  and  excellent  qualities.  —  Scientific  American. 

A  work  of  great  utility.  It  will  give  a  writer  the  word  he  wants,  when  that  word  is  on  the 
tip  of  his  tongue,  but  altogether  beyond  his  reach.  —  N.  Y.  Times. 

It  is  more  complete  than  the  English  work,  which  has  attained  a  just  celebrity.  It  is  intended 
to  supply,  with  respect  to  the  English  language,  a  desideratum  hitherto  unsupplied  in  any 
language,  namely,  a  collection  of  the  words  it  contains,  and  of  the  idiomatic  combinations 
peculiar  to  it,  arranged,  not  in  alphabetical  order,  as  they  are  in  a  dictionary,  but  according  to 
the  ideas  which  they  express.  The  purpose  of  a  dictionary  is  simply  to  explain  the  meaning 
of  words  —  the  word  being  given,  to  find  its  signification,  or  the  idea  it  is  intended  to  convey. 
The  object  aimed  at  here  is  exactly  the  converse  of  this  :  the  idea  being  given,  to  find  the  word 
or  words  by  which  that  idea  may  be  mostly  fitly  and  aptly  expressed.  For  this  purpose,  the 
words  and  phrases  of  the  language  are  here  classed,  not  according  to  their  sound  or  their 
orthography,  but  strictly  according  to  their  signification.  —  New  York  Evening  Mirror. 

An  invaluable  companion  to  persons  eng.iged  in  literary  labors.  To  persons  who  are  not 
familiar  with  foreign  tongues,  the  catalogue  of  foreign  words  and  phrases  most  current  in 
modern  literature,  which  the  American  editor  has  appended,  will  be  very  useful. — Presbyterian. 
It  casts  the  whole  English  language  into  groups  of  words  and  terms,  arranged  in  such  a 
manner  that  the  student  of  English  composition,  when  embarrassed  by  the  poverty  of  his 
vocabulary,  may  supply  himself  immediately,  on  consulting  it,  with  the  precise  term  for 
which  he  has  occasion.  —  New  York  Evening  Post. 

This  is  a  work  not  merely  of  extraordinary,  but  of  peculiar  value.  We  would  gladly  praise 
jt,  if  any  thing  could  add  to  the  consideration  held  out  by  the  title  page.  Ko  one  who  speaks 
ar  writes  for  the  public  need  be  urged  to  study  Roget's  Thesaurus.  —  Star  of  the  West. 

Every  writer  and  speaker  ought  to  possess  himself  at  once  of  this  manual.  It  is  far  from 
lieingamere  dull,  dead  string  of  synonymes.  but  it  is  enlivened  and  vivified  by  the  classifying 
and  crystallizing  power  of  genuine  philosophy.  We  have  put  it  on  our  table  as  a  permanent 
fixture,  as  near  our  left  hand  as  the  Bible  is  to  our  right  —  Omgregationalist. 

This  book  is  one  of  the  most  valuable  we  ever  examined.  It  supplies  a  want  long  acknowl- 
edged by  the  best  writers,  and  supplies  it  completely.  —  Portland  Advertiser. 

One  of  the  most  efficient  aids  to  composition  that  research,  industry,  and  scholarship  have 
ever  produced.  Its  object  is  to  supply  the  writer  or  speaker  with  the  most  felicitous  terms 
for  expressing  an  idea  that  may  be  vaguely  floating  on  his  mind;  and,  indeed,  through  the 
peculiar  mauner  of  arrangement,  ideas  themselves  may  be  expanded  or  modified  by  reference 
fcfi  Mr.  U^ft'fl  elucidations.  —  Albion,  N.  Y.  (fi; 


FOURTEEN  DAY  USE 

RETURN  TO  DESK  FROM  WHICH  BORROWED 


This  book  is  due  on  the  last  date  stamped  below,  or 

on  the  date  to  which  renewed. 

Renewed  books  are  subject  to  immediate  recall. 


24W56PW 

^81195610 

LD  21-100m-2,'55                                  TT   . Gene"1  f  jbrary 
(B139s22)476                                         University  of  California 

Berkeley 

